


When I Got Nothing But My Aching Soul

by BourbonOnTheRocks



Category: Good Girls (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Nursing Home, Angst, Appalling Level Of Miscommunication, Beth PoV, But From Natural Causes, Comedy, Denial, Drinking, Erectile Dysfunction, F/M, Fluff, Geriatrics, Hurt/Comfort, I'm so sorry, Idiots, Joints Pain, LIKE REALLY REALLY DUMB, Life And Death Angst, Lubrication Issues, Melancholy, Mentions Of Annie x Diane, Mentions Of Past Beth x OMC, Old Age, Post S3, Post canon, Recreational Drug Use, Rio POV, Shenanigans, Slow Burn, Some Crack Vibes I Guess, Some Grace And Frankie Vibes, TW: Use Of The Word Trump For Cards Game Context, Unprotected Sex, Well Everything Is Slow To Be Honest, crankiness, mentions of minor character death, mentions of past trauma, some violence, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:21:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28714941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BourbonOnTheRocks/pseuds/BourbonOnTheRocks
Summary: When a ghost from her past resurfaces in 72-years-old Beth Boland's life, things take an unexpected turn.ORWelcome to the Nursing Home AU that nobody asked for.Set post-canon. Like really, really post-canon.
Relationships: Beth Boland/Rio
Comments: 200
Kudos: 163





	1. A Darker Shade Of Hazelnut

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MissMaxime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMaxime/gifts).



> Because she's been encouraging my Brio aging-up ambitions from the very start.
> 
> Also special shout-out to [gangfriend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gangfriend) who crafted all those amazing moodboards for each chapter, and whose constant encouragements and enthusiastic ~~bullying~~ support have been considerably helpful during the writing of this fic ❤
> 
> I am aware that this is supposed to be set around 2050, but I'm too lazy to go full sci-fi world-building, so I'll keep tech innovation to its bare minimum, cool? Besides, Beth doesn't know how to use a phone in 2020, so she won't master 2050 holograms anyways.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every Wednesday at four o'clock, she plays bridge. That's precisely the rock bottom her life has hit these days. 

It's not — well, it's not that she doesn't _enjoy_ it, though. Actually she abundantly cheats, peppers the game with the cheap thrill she can rip off the few years she still has yet to live. But it's not exactly the life she'd choose to live if —

No, that's not true. 

There is always a choice, she thinks, eyes focused on the quite hypnotic motion of the yarn around her knitting needles. And this is one that _she_ made. After she broke her hip and the kids — it doesn't matter that her youngest recently hit the age Beth herself was when she was born, she'll always think of them as the kids, it's a parent's privilege —, the doctors, _everyone_ really, lectured her about being on her own at her age. Treating her like a fragile reed — or worse, a _toddler_ — likely to hurt herself at the slightest minute of a grown-up's inattention.

Annie and Diane offered more than once that she comes live with them at the time. Their insistence was actually borderline annoying. It just didn't sound... _fair_. To anyone. No matter her little sister's peroration about giving back year for year of caretaking, Beth would have rather killed herself than been a deadweight in Annie and Diane's life, not when the latter were finally taking time for themselves and realizing dreams they'd had to wait for retirement to fulfill.

And Ruby and Stan's... It's not even an option she seriously considered for a minute. They already have to look after themselves. Plus, Florida is. Too far. There's... well for some reasons she doesn't want to leave Michigan in general, and the Detroit area in particular. Something seems to hold her back right here, in this shitty hole. Memories. History. That's — _preposterous_ , though. But the sole perspective of leaving makes her physically sick. Drowning in anguish.

She doesn't want to live surrounded by a couple of elderly lovebirds anyway. And God knows that aging only seems to have brought Stan and Ruby closer. Not that she ever thought that it was even remotely possible. But here they are now, and the prospect of witnessing their cooing all day long is not exactly _enthralling_ to her moody solitude. To say the least. 

Living with anyone from a younger generation being out of the question, she _chose_ the only remaining, default option.

And it was — hard. A choice she stuck to, biting her tongue to the blood the day they brought her in the nursing home and left, everyone going back to their lives. There's something vertiginous attached to the idea that this might be the _last_ place she'll live at. That she'll only get out of it once made horizontal. But it's — worth it. She's cleared of regrets every time she receives a postcard from Annie, sent from whatever random place on the planet that her sister's fantasy — or Diane's — lead them to. 

Knows she picked the right option every time Ruby and Stan facetime her.

Or — whatever they call it these days. She narrows her eyes at a reluctant stitch, lets out a slightly annoyed sigh. This won't be ready by Christmas if the wool keeps resisting her like that.

Anyway... Annie facetimes too. _Obviously_. It's just that Beth really loves to get mail. Revels in the handwritten mention of her name on the back. And these cards... they have seen places. Places she knows now that she'll never get to see by herself, stuck in her hospice as she is.

She's not complaining, though. At least she can walk. And she gets visits. Some people here have neither.

Annie and Diane come in quarterly. Sort of. And Ruby and Stan, surprisingly doing well considering their combined age, try to fly in twice a year, bags full of combative anecdotes about their ongoing feud with Ron, their racist new neighbor, or Sara's juiciest cases — graduating from Harvard and becoming one of the youngest judges in the history of Michigan is an achievement that always paints Beth's cheeks with as much parental pride as Ruby's. Sara isn't hers, of course, but — she's family nonetheless. Although it's been a while ever since the last time Beth got to see her. Or Harry.

Not that she has seen her own offspring much more over the past eighteen months that she's spent in this hellhole of a nursing home. Or — well, even _before_ that. They have lives of their own, now, children to take care of for some of them.

She gets it.

Her hands shake a little at the thought, causing the needles to un-sync and miss a few stitches. Great. Now she's got to start over the whole row.

Emma is the one who calls the most. She's been roaming the globe for the most part of the last decade, rescuing endangered birds — she volunteered at the WWF right after graduating from vet school, and although Beth misses her daughter's presence every day, hers is perhaps the most exciting destiny among the broad range of futures that her children carved for themselves in the great marble of life. 

Danny's a graphic designer and he lives with his husband in Silicon Valley. Jane's a performer in New York. Both living lives that seem to vibrate at a way too high frequency to accommodate the slowed speed of their old mom. Kenny... well, Kenny _could_ visit more often. He's the only one who stayed in Detroit. He works as a realtor, has a wife — Bridget — and three kids.

But he — 

Well, he's always been closer to his father, especially after the divorce. Kind of built a life cast according to this very specific role model. She even suspects him to cheat on Bridget as well, a thought invariantly reminding her of the icy feeling that had crawled on her spine the night Judith — may she rest in peace — had confessed Dean's father's infidelity. She takes it as a personal failure, not having managed to stop _that_ vicious circle of twisted manhood and raised her boy in a different way.

But maybe it's not her fault, she wants to believe as she furiously twists the yarn between the needles. It's funny how knitting is supposed to appease her but right now, from an external point of view, it's probably not the vibe she's displaying.

Kenny has barely spoken to her ever since she married Phil — her second husband. As if she'd been performing the ultimate stage of betrayal against his father or something. Please. Kenny was sixteen by then, and she — she _tried_ to ease the intrusion of a stepdad in her children's existence, she really did. But it didn't prevent her eldest's brutal rebellion. And sure, Kenny was a handful to parent about anything at that age, but she also highly suspects Dean to not have exactly tried to mitigate the blaze. More like the opposite, fanning-the-flames kind, actually. It took a pretty long time for Dean to finally accept that she'd moved on. Definitively. And she'd hoped that time would smoothen her relationship with her firstborn, but it just settled things further in non-existence. 

How ironic, though. How Kenny used to be the exclusive center of her world, and her of his own, for two glorious years. Dean was constantly wriggling his way out of his home with business dinner excuses by then — it had taken him a while after his firstborn's birth to get used to the smell of dirty diapers in the house and the sight of Beth pumping her milk. 

How _naive_ of her to have bought that bullshit, though. _Obviously_ Dean was already cheating on her back then. But the certitude doesn't elicit more than a vague sensation of waste, now. It doesn't matter anymore.

And how naive of her to have thought that these two exclusive years in Kenny's life would weight anything on the day she stopped existing in the eyes of her son for having chosen someone else to spend her life with.

She lets out a deep exhale at the thought, pauses before starting a new row, the frantic motion of the pale blue thread of wool coming to a stop on her lap.

It shouldn't matter _now_. The fathering war has run out of belligerents for a while. Very ironically, both Dean and Phil passed away only a couple of months apart. It happened a few years ago, the former eventually losing his long-fought battle against the cancer he'd claimed to have two decades and a half earlier, and Phil unfortunately succumbing to a stroke.

And she's left with — no one. At least not in that particular field.

Living alone after Phil's death was... actually fairly suitable. She was doing well by herself. Until she broke that damn hip and scared everyone, somehow condemned to assistance from there on out. And now the highlight of her existence is the weekly game of bridge where she takes an almost sadistic pleasure in ruining Asmita's ambition to win. Take _that_ , perfect gluten-free mother of the year! What _were_ the odds that they'd both end up in the same home thirty years later, after all? Hasn't Asmita spent enough time pestering Beth and embodying everything she should have been happy to be but wasn't?

There must be some sort of spell cast on Beth's shoulder, some karmic revenge bringing back old enemies she doesn't have the energy to fight with anything but trump cards anymore.

Speaking of old nemeses.

Her fingers have absent-mindedly resumed their knitting motion on the baby blanket she promised to send Jane for Christmas — a gift to her newborn son — while she's waiting for the game to begin, when she catches sight of a silhouette in the corridor. Not _any_ silhouette. Her breath catches, and her heart jumps in her chest so high she's practically sure it's going to spill out of her mouth.

Needless to say that the baby blanket instantly goes unattended, slipping from her lap and on the floor in a thud that she barely notices.

Because talking to a nurse, showing her his rear, is this tall, slim, dark-haired man who reminds her of — no. That would be _absurd_. She avidly details the tanned skin, the broad shoulders, a vision from the past, really, when the handsome stranger — she's positive she's never seen him around before, and she's got an _eye_ for it — eventually turns his head, glancing around the lounge area.

Her shoulders sag with mixed feelings, and she mentally scolds herself. What was she thinking?

His eyes are brown, a color she's pretty sure is a shade lighter than — well, the opposite would have been monstrously unfair given this man's youth. Would have needed some Benjamin Button-type of sorcery, honestly. And his skin is devoid of, well, _ink_. But there's — something. A general look, maybe.

He notices the way she's detailing his features, frowns a little at her total lack of embarrassment. She passed that point in life years ago, to be honest. What's the point of having eyes if it's not for using them? Especially when the way _she_ looks actually prevents her from any unexpected mishap.

"Do I know you?" she eventually croaks.

And it's — beyond her control, really. The way she slightly straightens, reflexively shows off the shadow of her once upon a time abundant cleavage, curves her lips into a parody of seduction. It's not that she believes that she's actually got a shot with — anyone. But she's always been... coquettish, especially now. Hell, she dyes her hair for a _reason!_

The beautiful man in front of her tilts his head, slightly narrows his eyes with a puzzled look, and God, the similarity is _hurtful_.

"I don't think so," he gently says, and his voice is _very_ different from what she expected.

Light. Neat. Devoid of accent or — or _drawl_. She can't decide whether it's a relief or a disappointment.

"Are you the new nurse?" she asks, and this time — for the sake of decency, what is wrong with her? — she's blatantly _flirting_.

He smiles with a throaty chuckle, shows off one of the most perfect dentitions she's ever seen. Besides —

"No, I'm just signing in a parent."

With that he turns back to the nurse who playfully grabs his arm to show him out — God, Audra is _such_ a flirter! — and a whooshing sound makes itself heard, getting closer by the minute, and it's —

The premonition hits a split second before Jamila brings the wheelchair in.

Because the odds have _always_ been against her.

In a distant corner of her peripheral vision, Robert joins her table as the game is about to start, but it could happen on another planet that she wouldn't pay it less attention. Thirty years of deeply buried grief suddenly erupt in her chest, constrict around her heart, ring in her ears, turn into scorned anger. 

Well, well, well. She did remember correctly, after all. His eyes are darker than his son's warm hazelnut ones when they meet hers, a spark of recognition instantaneously shining in his gaze.

Hey, at least he seems to remember her. It will ease a few things. Probably.

"Can I get you anything before the game starts, Beth? Maybe more water?" Jamila asks as she walks past her on her way to the kitchen, her wheelchair passenger having landed safely in the middle of the lounge area.

Beth instantly placates her most charming-old-lady smile, covers the silent screaming inside of her underneath a well-worn mask, "Yes, dear, you would be an angel," she raves.

Jamila smiles fondly at her, whispers something about making it juice instead because it's her — nurses here have been so _easy_ to wrap around her little finger! —, before she exits the room, and Beth's mouth twists with all the heinous contempt her lips can carry without cramping as her eyes turn back to the newcomer. The single knitting needle that's still hanging uselessly from her hand sinks deep in the fabric of her pants, then almost equally in her thigh, as her hands start to shake with the accumulated ire of literal decades.

Her voice is ice cold when she eventually drops a single statement.

"It's you."


	2. North and South

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to really really thank you all guys for the amazing feedback you gave to the first chapter of this fic. I didn't expect it and it absolutely made my week. I love you ❤️
> 
> Also. I basically know nothing about nursing homes so don't mark my words on how things happen there, okay?

There's a beat.

He just stares at her, taken aback by her coldness, her fury, or maybe her _look_ , hell what does she know... Until he smirks, apparently totally unaware that she's _fulminating_.

"Yeah..." he drawls, in a voice that sounds maybe a little lower than she remembered.

But she'll be damned if it doesn't make it more appealing.

It's unfair, how pretty he still looks. Sure, there are new wrinkles on his face, ones that in different circumstances she might be tempted to trace with her fingertips. His skin has lost a bit of its perfectly smooth elasticity, the epidermis faintly marred with the result of probable years of drinking and worries, maybe even some minor addiction. There's a new scar on his cheek, slightly disrupting the silvery carpet of his stubble. Although his hair doesn't even seem _that_ grey, but maybe he's resorting to the same ploy she does in that department.

But on top of that there's still this... this _magnetic_ energy, this powerful strength — or is it a strong power, she couldn't tell — that drew her to him back in younger days. His throat tattoo stares back at her with arrogance, the bird of prey sprawling around his neck with more majesty than ever, all faded ink and subtle ripples. Overall he seems to have aged fine, which feels absolutely disloyal.

It's not fair that he looks so good while she just looks... _old_.

Well, obviously aside from the wheelchair he's sitting in. She may no longer have functional — or even real — hips, but she makes a point of still being able to walk. With a stick. Or two. Provided she has an unlimited amount of time and no step to climb, of course.

Maybe she sympathizes just a little with _that_ , although he's not even remotely close to deserving it.

He doesn't flinch at her examination, keeps quietly watching her, perhaps waiting for an answer that she's got no willingness to offer. So she averts her gaze with a mumbled _'Ugh!'_ and greets Jamila instead when she comes back with her promised juice and the playing cards, decidedly ignoring him.

She has no wish to talk to him. Like ever.

He made a choice, thirty years ago, and she fully intends to make him deal with the consequences of it. There's no time prescription for ruining... whatever it was that he ruined.

These belong to the realm of memories she's unwilling to conjure.

The spa store had successfully launched by then, Rio and she co-partnering the whole books _'books'_ thing. And after some turbulences, their endless war seemed to have settled on a wobbly truce, Fitzpatrick having apparently vanished in a puff of smoke or something like that. It's funny that she actually still has no idea of what happened to him. She's pretty positive that Rio was aware of his existence, though. But she never asked about the resolution. They sort of... fell back into old habits, instead. The ones implying the intoxicating combination of unspeakable secrets and the proximity of a bed, or at least a — a _sink_.

And she — thought, or rather _deluded herself_ into the belief that maybe... 

Maybe they were on the same page about _that_. Although neither of them ever said it out loud. How _convenient_ their system — arrangement, whatever — was. 

How... How _good_ it felt. Made her feel. 

How perhaps for the first time ever, she was daring to think that she finally could have it all.

Until he... basically _disappeared_. Overnight. Without a freaking explanation.

Of course she shut down the business and went legit for a while, thought that maybe something was going on with the authorities, feared the worst. _Mourned_ him, even.

She had a Google alert set for _months_ , waking up every morning and expecting to open her eyes on the footages of his dead body all over the news.

But she still needed to make a living after all, for Annie and Ruby, for herself, so she got back in business at some point.

Alone.

She found out eighteen months later through extremely convoluted circumstances involving particularly shady acquaintances that he'd been alive and well all along, doing business in Canada as if nothing had happened.

To this day she can't think about that particular moment without a ravaging urge to hammer stuff. Preferentially his skull.

She briefly considered going up North to yell at him, back then. Acknowledged that she would probably come back in an even worse state. She'd already wasted too much time and energy over someone who hadn't even had the balls to say goodbye.

By then, she and Phil had been seeing each other casually for maybe six or eight months, although she'd carefully stayed away from any deeper commitment, maybe cherishing other... prospects. Keeping options open. Whatever. But Rio's indifferent aliveness was the last drop that definitively fueled her into someone else's life.

And when Phil suggested they take their relationship to the next level one year later, she just... admitted that nothing was holding her back anymore. A few years in her second marriage, she burned the bridges with crime for good, having made enough benefits to reinvest the money in a whole portfolio of legit and lucrative spa stores.

It wasn't an easy farewell though. Not at all. She can't say she hasn't missed the thrill during all these years.

She still does.

It's actually the only thing that makes her feel alive — aside from sadistic bridge — ever since she's gotten in here. 

Criming. 

Sort of, at least.

At first, she just stole things. Menial stuff. Forgotten jewelry, coins, glasses, cutlery. Pens, even, on dry days. Going as far as pretending to _help_ the poor souls searching for their lost possessions. Nobody would ever suspect the adorable old lady who can barely walk, right? And that's where the _fun_ lies. Getting away with what she did, and dancing in front of her _de facto_ victims. Almost begging to get caught. It never happened of course, this is literally the last place anyone would expect to foster a hardened criminal.

It's not — well it isn't a _sadistic_ pleasure. She just can't help herself, enjoys the thrill too much.

Eventually she upscaled. The thing is, she almost fainted during the newcomers' walkthrough on her first day here when she discovered the place's quite restrictive policy regarding the consumption of alcohol — only allowed during monthly social events. And although she's been benefitting of Annie's indulgence in this regard since day one, her sister smuggling generous amounts of her favorite bourbon every time she visits, it took Beth some time to consider the... the potential market.

Which turned out. _Massive_. Seems like everyone misses drinking in their old days.

She likes to think that she basically created an empire here, from scratch. Annie provides half of the stash whenever she comes, and Harry from security takes a small percentage for bringing in everything else she needs. She hides it all in the ceiling of her room before dispatching the orders during curfew hours. And the profits are _huge_.

Perhaps moving merchandise for twice their real price to the gullible residents who have no idea of how much booze costs these days is extortion, but it's not really her problem. It's not her fault if people can't look for information themselves. Plus she's doing them a _favor_. Helping out the community.

And the best part of it is how good it feels. To know that she still has it, is still good at it. Although she's careful to not scratch _that_ surface too deep, broadly aware of what's underneath, the deafening missing piece. Success needs cheerleaders to be properly enjoyed. After all she quit for a _reason_ all those years ago, and it was not her marriage. At least not this time.

She's deeply pissed that _he_ joins for bridge, wouldn't even have expected him to own any ability to play if she had to guess. He pushes himself forward with his arms to roll across the room and she gets insanely slow at picking up, with trembling hands, her knitting work-in-progress from the floor to spare herself the vision of him. Until she realizes that he has come to seat at her table in the meantime, the apocalyptic conclusion ripping a sigh of barely held annoyance from her lungs.

"Everyone, meet Christopher, our new resident," Jamila announces, and a choir of mumbled greetings from the four tables of players echoes.

And, well. At least _that_ makes sense, now she gets why he joined. But oh, _Christopher_ chose the wrong table to make new friends. She won't give him _anything_ but her triumphant gaze in the end, once she'll have taken his every asset from him. Even if tonight's loot will mostly consist of literal trump cards.

This is beyond life and death. It's a matter of dignity.

The fact that the game odds force her to team up with him against Asmita and Robert is an unfortunate catastrophe in itself. Unwilling to partner with him, she contradicts his every bid with different color announcements, forces him to play dummy every time because there's only one player who has to be silent and literally does nothing for the whole game and she wants it to be him.

She doesn't need him to win this game.

"Well, Beth, it doesn't look like it's your night," Asmita points out with her stupid cheeky smile and an artificial giggle, rearranging the set of cards in her hand with affected manners.

"Night's not over, Asmita," Beth replies with her best PTA voice, although her fingers are itching for murder.

Asmita's not wrong, though.

In her eagerness to counteract Rio's every move and turn him useless, Beth completely neglects Asmita's game. Which the latter learned to play close to the chest, her partnership with Robert coming out as flawless while Beth is just destroying her own, and this time, even Beth's skills at trafficking the scores are not enough to control the damage.

Asmita and Robert's team's victory as a result is _crushing_ , and it's just too much to bear. Who likes to lose anyway? But this particular defeat is twice as bitter. She just can't seem to get a break in this constant stream of nemeses, and that's positively exhausting.

She needs to get out of here, fast. Flee anywhere — the library, the TV room, her own room, she doesn't care. She stands up so abruptly from her plastic chair that she can't repress a small whine when her knees painfully protest.

It's _insane_ , how slow her life has become. She finds it infuriating, the humiliation of not even being able to angrily stride away without eliciting a pained yapping. From the corner of her vision she can tell that _his_ head has whipped around at the sound of her plaint, she can feel his eyes on her, but she won't give him the pleasure of witnessing her capitulation.

So she swallows the pain back and turns away as fast as she can, knows that her joints will make her pay for it tomorrow. If she makes it until then, obviously.

She steals a fork on her way out. A compensatory payback for her trouble.

She's halfway through the corridor when she hears the regular _whoosh, whoosh!_ behind her, and she _cannot_ believe it. Of course he's going faster than her on his wheels, the asshole!

He doesn't make a show at overtaking her, tough. Slows down when he's reached her, adapts to her own snail speed.

"Elizabeth," he says.

Which is in no way constructive. She _knows_ her own name. Maybe he assumes she suffers from memory losses or something. Or maybe _he_ does. Wanted to proudly let her know that he finally remembered.

She tries really hard not to pay attention to the way her name sounds in his mouth.

"That's correct, congratulations," she crabs back, faintly speeding the motion of her walking stick.

Why can't he leave her alone? She has no intention to lose one more ticking second of her life with this idiot. Maybe if she hit him with the stick he'd —

"Nah, I mean... It's good to see you," he compliments, his eyes giving her a quick up-and-down appreciative glance, and she thinks she's going to murder him right away.

She stops dead in her tracks.

Fortunately for her criminal record — as if she even cared about that _now_ , though — she finds a soothing escape in the contemplation of their reversed height difference. Towering him is unexpectedly rewarding.

"Can we talk? For ol'times' sake?" he adds, and _God_ , why does his voice have to still be so annoyingly captivating, full of suggested promises that he's never proved himself capable of keeping?

She pulls on her moodiest face.

"I have nothing to say to you," she deadpans.

He pouts, his lips still full despite the passing of time, and the fingers of her left hand, the one not desperately clinging to a stick, unconsciously clutch the pearls of her necklace. The stolen fork makes a little bulge in her pants pocket, the dents slightly biting her thigh, and she oddly wonders if he noticed her rebellious act of ordinary crime.

"Kay, then," he gives up, his arms performing an elegant motion which flips his chair as a result, the wheels squeaking softly on the linoleum floor.

One moment later she's alone with her memories in a dumb corridor.

She doesn't see him for the rest of the afternoon. Nor at dinner. She did show up extra early for the first service though, eager to minimize the odds of unwanted happenstances. And saying that she spends the next day hiding in her room would be a little above the truth, but not by far.

She sort of needs time to absorb the news.

It's only on the next evening, much later after curfew, as she's reading a book in her bed with a soothing glass of bourbon in hand in an attempt to calm down from the past day's events, that she hears a soft knock at her door. Right. It's probably Gina who wants to purchase another pack of cigarettes — she provides these too but they're more expensive, a luxury product she only offers her premium customers.

She's got a ranking system. It's a whole thing.

Eleven o'clock sounds a bit late for VIP room service, but maybe Gina's been having another one of her migraines. These have happened to her quite often, lately.

But it's not Gina who's facing her when she opens her door. Instead, she's met with Rio's sarcastic grin.

Well. At least the wheels force him to use front doors properly from now on. She rolls her eyes, already annoyed. Mentally gives him three seconds to justify his presence.

He takes his time to roam his gaze up and down her features in a much longer glance than the day before in the corridor, reminding her of times when she was, well. _Prettier_. A swirl of self-consciousness that she can barely bear right now creeps along her spine, and she hates that she's standing in front of him in her giant, flowery-adorned loose robe. Especially when his face levels with her breasts.

Eventually he licks his lips before he declares, a fond smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, "Rumor says you the booze guy here, sweetheart?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bridge is a card game that is played with two teams of two players each. Before the game actually starts, you have to make several rounds of bidding in a way that's a bit similar to belote. The players are named after the four directions and the players in the team who won the bidding are called North and South. Inside a team, one player is called the declarant if they have the hand, and the other one is the dummy. The dummy basically show their hand at the start of the game and won't do or say anything after that, since the declarant will chose both their moves throughout the game.


	3. Older than El Chapo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "No."

She tries to slam her door shut without further explanation — she can perfectly do without a new customer, business is doing _great_ at the moment — but he's angled his chair in a way that just has the wooden panel bouncing against the wheel before coming back to her hand, useless.

"Oh so you'd rather want me to purchase gin from Asmita, then?" he purrs, blatantly confident in his victory.

And just —

"What?"

She _had_ to let him in after that, she reasons. Asmita trying to concurrence her on _that_ field is way worse than Beth's reluctance to be anywhere near Rio. It's a whole different scale. There are such things as _boundaries_. She can do with bridge lost battles, but this — well, if it's true it's a declaration of war.

Obviously Rio doesn't miss the opportunity to relish his triumph once he's got her blatantly hooked. He takes his time to drop the bomb, and the more infuriated she looks, the slower his arms graciously propel him inside her room.

Which is incredibly rude considering that he's already violating the home's curfew policy by knocking at her door at unearthly hours.

"She sells booze around for half your price list," he eventually provides, the sentence sharp and neat, reminding her of the way he used to talk business back in the old days. "Product is crappy but not everyone here can afford the top-shelf shit that you sell. She's doin' great on the market. Gettin' big."

Well. It's not like Beth didn't notice a slow ebbing in the orders lately. Her shoulders prick with a Pavlovian urge to puff metaphorical feathers like a freaking pigeon at his mention of her merchandise quality, her eyes glued on the wings that ripple against the skin of his throat as he speaks.

He's always done... _that_ , to her. This — this need for praise. Approval. It's infuriating. Every time she's got his attention, she's somehow back to being this ten-year-old schoolgirl willing to please her 5th-grade teacher with how seriously she did her homework.

That's where the comparison immediately stops though. Anything else about her... _relationship_ with Rio has nothing to do with primary school.

But — but she doesn't need him. Doesn't need his stamp of approval to be proud of herself and what she created here.

So she leaves her shoulder where they are and shakes her head instead.

"You figured this all out in only one day?" she squints, vaguely suspicious.

He slightly shrugs, opposes a cocky grin, "Whatchu want me to say, I'm a pro. It's sorta what I do."

She nods, only half-convinced. But also half not giving a damn. It's not really her problem if he's got nerdy and boring hobbies. She just wants him out of here before she completely loses what's left of her mind. She knocks the rest of her drink in one go before she loudly drops the empty glass on the mini desk, makes sure he doesn't lose the obvious implication that she's not going to offer him one.

This is not old days.

"So what do you want, a discount?" she snaps back instead.

It's mostly rhetorical. But that would actually be... negotiable. If that's what he came for. Although it wouldn't be out of soul goodness. If she's being honest, she's mostly harboring a desire to stop Asmita's rise rather than have him as a customer. But if she can kill two birds with one stone, well. She's not going to complain.

He looks — offended. Insulted, almost.

"Nah... Got a business proposition for you," he offers, eyes shining and lips stretching in a way that tells her without the slightest ambiguity how proud of himself he is.

She blinks. 

Twice. 

The affront feels like a slap in the face, and she swears she can hear her bones rattle and her joints protest from the aftershock. Does he seriously think that he can slip his way back in her life after a three decades hiatus as if he'd just gone out for coffee?

" Get. Out."

It slips out in a murderous hiss.

"You sure you don't wanna hear it first?" he pouts.

She takes a sharp inhale, starts shaking her head before she suddenly changes her mind.

"I— okay, fine," she eventually concedes with a shrug.

She can let him expose his so-called genius theories. Her rebuttal _after_ will come out as even more brutal for his entitled skinny ass. Which doesn't seem to have gotten plumper with time, by the way.

He joins his hands on his knees, fingertips pressed together in a vivid picture of his older business talk posture, and she has to force her gaze away from his laced fingers. His hands seem to have grown even broader with time, the knuckles slightly more prominent, and she sucks in a breath at the sudden and unwelcome memory of how they felt on her skin.

Really it's unfair, almost supernatural, the way he still exudes natural authority and charisma. Even when he has to tilt his chin up to meet her eyes because he's sitting in a freaking wheelchair while she should be the one towering him with aggressive superiority.

"So I know a guy—" he starts but she cuts him instantly, already annoyed.

Hell, she might as well have some fun with this.

"Yeah, I could have figured this part by myself," she dramatically sighs, spicing the show with a perfectly timed eye roll. "You _always_ know a guy."

He flashes her an enigmatic smirk and rolls a little closer to her, doesn't seem to take the intended offense.

"Can get you the same shit you sell for sixty percent of your current costs," he speaks, low, with a triumphant raise of his left eyebrow suggesting that he just found a cure for cancer.

Or something at least equivalent.

She squints at his obnoxious certitude, "How do you even know how much I pay my suppliers? You only got here yesterday!"

He dives into an incomprehensible explanation about chains of acquaintances but she has no desire to endlessly listen to his convoluted mumbling. She's probably not very eager to start digging into the extent of intel he seems to already have on her either.

It's annoying how some things really never change.

"You know, you should consider enunciating more clearly because my hearing is not what it used to be anymore," she cuts him after maybe two minutes of nonsensical rambling which — for the record — still sounds pretty _far_ from its supposed resolution.

It's — untrue. The hearing thing. But plausible. Designed to annoy him. And it's... it's _delightful_ to mess with him. Petty, but broadly deserved.

This time he seems to finally wake up his irritation.

"Honey, this is a take or leave offer, yeah?" he snaps.

"Then I'm afraid that I'm going to ask you to leave," she coldly throws back, her body so stiff she feels like she might break into two distinctive pieces if she falls.

Which is probably going to happen anyway. A beginning of arthritis is blooming in her left knee and she needs to sit down, but she won't give him the pleasure of finally dropping down to his level.

He locks eyes with her for maybe a couple of seconds, peering at her with attention, and it feels like having her whole brain scanned for a backdoor. Eventually he tears his gaze away and initiates a spin on his wheels.

"T'was nice seein' you though," he drops on his way out, mockery glistening at the edges of his voice.

She refills her glass the instant that he's gone.

"But _then_ , Stan told him that he was a former Detroit PD, and you should have seen Ron's face!"

Ruby's cackles don't sound like her coming from the tablet's speakers, but whatever. It's good to see her friend's face. Her contented smile that shows up to the crinkles at the corners of her eyes. Beth misses her. So much. Although she's made this pact with herself to not ever mention that in front of her.

It's been something like fifteen years ever since Ruby and Stan moved to Florida. During her half-legit expansion phase, Beth bought a few spa stores outside the state of Michigan, trying to diversify her assets.

Flip her game.

Ruby _jumped_ on the occasion to become a spa store manager in Miami. Sara and Harry had both graduated from college at the time and didn't need material or financial support anymore. And Stan was missing the sun. Who could blame them, honestly?

And, well. Beth can't be mad at them either for staying there once they retired. The only shade in their sunny paradise being embodied by Ron, their new neighbor who's apparently constantly on the verge of calling the cops on them for insignificant matters.

The image of Stan casually mentioning his serving records just when his racist neighbor thought he had the upper hand makes Beth smile. Well, _obviously_ Ron has no idea of who he's really dealing with.

"And then I added that I used to be nail-polishing buddy with a former FBI agent, and we didn't see him for the rest of the day," Ruby continues, and Beth can't help but giggle at the sudden picture of Phoebe and her that Ruby has created in her mind.

Ruby has grown... _sassier_ with time. Playful. Sometimes her best friend shoots jokes that Beth would never have imagined in her mouth twenty years ago. Especially about their criminal past. As if all of it was buried far away in time, safe enough for Ruby to summon it ironically without being scared of it anymore.

Well, if only that was true.

"I still don't understand how you can bear living near people like this, honey," Beth sighs. "You and Stan should move out. You can afford a bigger house anyway."

"Babe, existing in front of him _is_ our victory," Ruby replies with seriousness before she cracks up a smile "And you know that I love this house... How are you doing up there?"

"I, um—" Beth starts.

She briefly wonders if she should mention Rio's unexpected coming back from the graveyard of her memories. Decides that she prefers not to.

"I'm fine," she follows-up, voice light as fallen leave floating in the morning breeze.

"Huh," Ruby frowns.

"What?"

"Honey, you do know that there's a face in Facetime, right?" Ruby asks, concern spilling out from her brown eyes.

And — sure. There is.

"Yeah, so?"

"So I can tell when you're hiding things, B. What's going on?"

Beth sighs. She's never lost her ability to hide her most unspeakable secrets deep beneath her bones, but Ruby has grown better and better at reading between the lines. Surprisingly she's often even more perceptive on distance calls than on a face-to-face. But Beth is not ready for the spate of questions that will inevitably rain on her if she tells the truth.

She's not even sure herself of how she feels about... this. Doesn't want to think about it. After their talk in her room the other night, she hasn't even seen the shadow of him for the whole next day. Couldn't even tell if he was still here. Not that she cared, though, he can do whatever he wants, she won't start looking out for him.

Then she glimpsed him a couple of times across the lounge yesterday. Chatting with Gina and Robert, reading. Perhaps even doing some crosswords. Well at least now she knows that he's still here. Just — just not interacting with her. Which is fine. But that's definitely not something she's willing to discuss right now. With anyone.

So instead she opts for a half-truth.

"It's nothing. Just been stirring old memories," she dreamily admits. "Hey what do you think happened to Ri— you know... him?" she adds in a whisper, gossipish almost.

Clearly Ruby did _not_ expect such an answer. Something looking extremely similar to the discouragement of having been there way too many times before flickers on her face.

"I think that he got shot in some shady alley twenty-or-so years ago. Probably rotting by now," she says with the quiet voice that Beth is positive she's heard her using to soothe Harry and Sara after a tantrum when they were younger.

"Wow. That's brutal," Beth moodily replies.

It's almost... disrespectful. Not that she's Rio's biggest fan, but that sounds like a merciless ending. Even for him.

"Honey, criminals don't live old. Name _one_ gang leader who made it until retirement day."

"El Chapo," Beth pouts.

"Homeboy is no El Chapo," Ruby sighs, "We're talking about a local Detroit street-gang leader!"

"With ties to Canada!" Beth protests.

Not that she has any _reason_ to defend him. She's just re-establishing some truths here.

"I doubt that Big Mike was an influent member of the Canadian Parliament," Ruby snorts. "Look, I hate to rain on your parade, B., but homeboy's most probably dead by now."

Great. Now Beth will definitely _not_ say a word about the recent developments.

"Babe... Do you — do you _miss_ him?" Ruby asks, softer, and Beth blinks, woken up from her thought.

"No! I guess I just... got caught in old memories, that's it."

For once she's glad that the small angled camera of the tablet can't take in the way her fingers are manically fidgeting with the knitting needles, how she's torturing the yarn around the rigid stick right now. If she had Ruby in front of her, the latter would clock that instantly.

Beth isn't even sure that her half-lie has convinced Ruby at all, but they don't mention the topic for the rest of the call. She just hopes she evaded the issue well enough that Ruby won't mention it to Stan, because then he will inevitably mention it to Diane, who will tell Annie, and —

Then she'll definitely never hear the end of it.

As days go by she catches sight of Rio a few more times at meals and gatherings in the lounge, and it's — annoying, really, how he does not pay attention to her at all, parading around like everyone else in the home is his closest friend. Oozing a friendliness he's literally never _ever_ displayed in front of her. He seems to have grown a sense of contact and some charming social skills during those last three decades, because she definitely can't picture the Rio she used to know acting like _this_.

Although...

Blurry memories of him around other people, people that were _not her_ , resurface in an absurd dance, and maybe — maybe this is just a side of him she never got a chance to see.

Which sort of rubs her the wrong way, but... but it's fine. She's fine. She doesn't need him.

Business-wise though, the week doesn't go as planned _at all_. She gets a growing and quite unexplainable amount of order cancellations, to the point that she nearly messages Annie to reduce the alcohol volumes she's supposed to bring on her upcoming visit next week. It's a catastrophe.

And she probably wouldn't have connected the dots so soon if it wasn't for his _smugness_. A perceptible arrogance in his shoulders maybe, a certain pride in the way he tilts his head in the distance, as even the stupid bird on his throat seems to mock her whenever she catches sight of it.

At this point, she wouldn't be surprised to learn that Rio himself orchestrated a whole whisper campaign against her as retaliation for not taking on his offer.

But. She needs a quick fix to her problem, and if this was just an ordinary turf war between her and Rio, a petty tantrum he's throwing in response to her rebuttal, she'd take her time to come up with elaborate revenge. But there are things in life that are beyond stomachable, and Asmita stealing her customer base is one of them.

God, she's had to endure this woman for way too many decades, she won't let this last provocation happen on her watch.

And it's the _only_ reason that leads her to knock at Rio's room door at the end of the week, half an hour after curfew. For obvious reasons, crimery talks must happen after hours.

"Door's open," she hears coming from the inside, and she barges in, determined to steal the upper hand and not let him play with her this time.

"Okay, fine. I've consider—" she starts before she interrupts herself, gaping like a fish out of water. Because there he is, casually standing by the window and drinking tea— where did he even find a cup? —, wheelchair discarded in the opposite corner of the room, and she lets out, almost horrified, "You can _walk?_ "


	4. 'Til the break of dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's travel back in time, and find out what really happened 30 years ago, shall we? From Rio's perspective. This is a secondary timeline we'll get a few glimpses of once in a while (am I camillaläckberging??)

There are nights when his guts tell him to be careful.

To fucking look into the rearview mirror. Sometimes he can tell only from the voice of some random dude on the phone that the deal's shady. Even for his own standards, at least. Call that bloody premonition or just habit. Whatever. Years of practice have developed some instinct for this, a red light bulb blinking like crazy in a corner of his brain when fucked-up shit is coming.

A notable exception would be Elizabeth, that he'll admit.

So far she's the only person who's ever managed to snake her way behind the filter. She's — well there's something about her that just shuts down his sixth sense. His brain. Whatever. She's a constant threat, hell, he fucking knows that. Has been, at least. Probably still is. But the point is, when it comes to her, he can't think straight, can't listen to his instinct. She's made him _mental_ enough to hand her the gun with which she shot him, for fuck's sake. Convinced him not to scatter her brains all over the walls of her ginormous house after _that_. Pulled him back in business.

And soon after in her fucking pants.

He ain't complaining though. His knuckles whiten around the steering wheel and he can't tell if it's rather due to extreme annoyance or ridiculous arousal, cause Elizabeth generally induces both at the same time. It's ultimately annoying.

But... But the fucking point is, nobody else gets that kind of oblivion from him. He trusts his guts when it comes to work, period. Cause starting to trust the wrong people and giving second chances? That's when you get deep in real trouble.

But tonight ain't one of those moments when doubt starts creeping and his pointer finger curls around a trigger before he even knows it. Tonight's standard level. Fucking low stress. The Marchetti brothers are clean. The dude he got on the phone — Luca — sounded alright. And this is just dealing with the basic distributors, nothin' high risk there.

This is gonna be a chill night.

Maybe on his way back home he'll stop for a takeaway by that lil Indian place he loves. And then maybe watch a movie or something. Marcus is at Rhea's this week so there's nobody waiting for him in his fucking house, and the prospect of spending one of his rare chill evenings alone just depresses the shit out of him. Maybe he could invite Mick over, share a plate of pakoras or two. It's been a while since they haven't taken some time to just catch-up on things outside drop instructions or corpses management. It's always work, work, work, these days.

Or —

Maybe he'll text Elizabeth, see what she's up to. It's crazy how the more he gets of her the more he wants of her. She made him — like _crafted_ , for real, with colors, handwriting, and whatnot — this ridiculous lil calendar specifying the nights they're supposed to meet at this pretentious spa store of hers for the weekly books checking. Quickly turned into a sex schedule if you ask for his opinion. As if the whole thing wasn't already lame enough she marked the days with shockingly pink stickers so even she can probably see it. She gave it to him with the blush of the century. Hell, she'd probably scowl at the mere suggestion of getting fucked on a night that isn't planned on the schedule.

He can't help a self-indulgent smile at the thought. Pictures her outraged expression and her night outfit coming straight from another century as she would lecture him about how rules are bound to be followed, and how she's got a _system_ , and all her usual crap. The way he'd make her switch the ugly pajamas for her bare skin while her face would turn into a pure painting of lust, her lips wet and her eyes shining, and —

A sonorous honk wakes him up. Shit, one more second of this nonsense and his car would have collided with the truck on his right. He presses the brake pedal with a curse, swears even harder when he realizes that he's still smiling like a fucking idiot.

Christ. Gotta make sure he'll have that stupid expression erased from his face before he'll enter the warehouse. He quickly checks his rearview mirror before signaling, and he's still trying to ward off this fucking grin with a grimace as he exits the freeway.

It's like awakening a sleeping beast though. Always is. The tiniest random thing reminds him of Elizabeth, and next thing he knows she's all around his brain, his attention diverted with razor-sharp focus from anything that isn't her.

It's a fucking obsession.

Things have been — surprisingly alright lately. Although Rio's pretty sure that he heard Mick uttering a sighing _'rabbits'_ under his breath when the latter got informed that Rio would handle meetings with Elizabeth alone from there on out. Jeez, this motherfucker doesn't know what he's talking 'bout.

She ain't — well Elizabeth ain't no _fuckbuddy_ material, to begin with. Though he can't say he wouldn't enjoy mentioning _that_ in front of her, just to see her cringe and blush in reaction.

Nah, the... the _carnal_ aspect is purely a happenstance consequent to their business involvement. And nothin' else. Which — alright — might seem, for an external, non-informed eye, to happen with growing regularity ever since they crossed that boundary again.

But it doesn't mean it's true.

He's still quite unclear on how it happened. How the fuck they got there from — from where they were. But the memory is still carved in his brain, a red-hot iron still fuming.

The night's thicker around him now that he's joined the secondary road, its shroud of darkness only pierced by the powerful headlights of his gigantic car — look, if you're earning your empire back after vultures shredded it while you were dead, you gotta show up big —, a mood propitious to remembrances.

They were both drunk in his empty bar on a night like this, pleasantly downing its finest bourbon in celebration for a particularly big spa deal she'd made. He'd had a fucking great time crafting all kinds of double-entendres for _hours_ about the concept of hitmen, until she'd picked the pieces with shocking tardiness. Jesus. As if she would ever have any chance to hire someone, anyone, without him instantly knowing it. For real, sometimes Elizabeth's dumb to the most obvious truths.

Anyways, he still reminisces vividly how her face turned whiter than a paper sheet when the realization shut her up. How doubt suddenly shadowed her pretty features. The drinks she bottomed up in a row as an immediate consequence, halfway between combative panic and resignation if he were to guess, a mood he's seen her in way too many times to not know that shit's about to hit the fan. 

Like it did. Man, the argument they got into after that...

Actually, anger seems to be a powerful trigger for them to —

Well.

Even now, sometimes he'll demand a shortened deadline at the last minute, or a bigger cut, just to see her cheeks flush with indignation and her lips twitch in mental insults before she'll start a whole parade of negotiations. She gets off on this, he'd bet his left arm. And while he'll eventually concede her a few crumbs of money, power, whatever she'll ask for, while they will stand dangerously closer as the heat will rise, she'll still end up beaten at his game but crushed against the nearest hard surface. Right where he's been wanting her from the very start. 

It's still quite uncertain to him whether she's the winner's prize or he's the loser's consolation, but the instant they'll touch, it won't matter anymore. Cause the only thing really meeting on an equal level his need to fuck her is probably her own, soaking want.

Back then, arguing with her was already a powerful boner-popper. And the specifics are frankly blurry in his mind, but at some point mid-argument he's pretty sure that she tried to hit him or whatever. Which is fucking adorable, let's admit. He caught her wrist with disconcerting ease. Grabbed the back of her neck with his other hand, his thumb firmly pressing against her throat.

He could have strangled her right away, fed up with her bullshit as he was. For real. He was fucking done with this. And sure, that would have been a dumb move. This hot-tubs crap had turned out pretty useful. But there ain't no war without casualties, right? Except that when he did squeeze a little around her throat, testing the water, she let out this shaky exhale, stared at him with hooded eyes.

Felt like turning on a fucking switch.

Next thing he knew she was frantically grabbing his shirt and he was pressing a harsh kiss on her lips, his tongue melting with hers, and nothing else mattered after that but tasting her, drinking her, inhaling her, absorbing her with every pore of his own skin.

He fucked her on the bar, hard and fast. There was something exhilaratingly cathartic in the silent permission she gave him to do whatever he wanted with her that night, to use her. In listening to the way she cried out every time he hit _that_ spot so deep inside of her. In marking her skin with his teeth, claiming her as his and his only. In watching her unravel under him and come with his name lingering on her lips, almost apologetic.

Talk 'bout a fucking revenge for all the times she pretended to end it, this _thing_ between them that has remained inescapable so far.

And then... Then after she let him come inside her — Christ, he hadn't fucked anyone since the... the _accident_ , that was, since _her_ — he's proud to say that he pulled out with a sinister smile, asked her to go home in this bossy tone that he knows she's always hated.

Cause — well. First of all, he needed her gone right away, otherwise he might have lost the last crumb of control — sanity — that kept his shit together, and done a stupid mistake like bring her back to his bed and map out her skin with his mouth 'til the break of dawn.

But also.

He's gotta admit that he thoroughly enjoyed the hurt in her eyes, his anger falling back into place after their interlude, any forgiveness for all her spider's web of lies and bullshit far from granted.

Couldn't wait to keep messing with her.

Except that the next time he met her in her office, the annoying lil minx had cooked revenge of her own. She showed up all dolled up in a _dress_ , kept pulling at the straps of her bra, made sure he noticed it was all fucking black lace on ivory skin, sat way closer to him than the books required, gave him her whole gamut of pouty lips and Bambi's eyes.

Subtle as a brick wall, truly. Pure Elizabeth fashion.

And all this freaking show for what? Only to eventually pick up her purse and mumble something about having plans for the night when they got finished with business, and at this point the fabric of his jeans was pressing _painfully_ against his crotch. As it does right now at the simple _thought_ of her stupid lacey lingerie.

Obviously, she didn't make it to the fucking door.

He pressed her hard against the wall and locked eyes with her, waiting for her signal to go on. But instead of the nod, sigh, whatever he expected, she'd just... _stroked his fucking cheek_ with one hand, her thumb delicately grazing his cheekbone — did she think they were part of a musical rom-com or some shit? — before she'd brought their mouths painfully close to one another.

"Ask for it. Tell me how much you want me," she dared him, lips brushing his own.

Fucking dramatic bitch. Sometimes he can't believe the audacity of the woman.

Obviously he didn't give in to her ambush, then. Christ, he'd have rather eaten dusty gravel than humored her in letting her invalidate his wrath like that.

"That's what I thought," she concluded after a beat, and he's pretty positive that he saw the corners of her mouth sag with disappointment.

And just like that she was gone, leaving him to the insufferable tension in his pants and a fucking walking issue.

He grips the steering wheel a lil bit harder at the reminder, tries to focus on the road instead of the memory of her tantalizing lips.

He sent Mick to deal with her for a while, after the books review _incident_ , or so to speak. She'd made her point crystal clear, that she wouldn't take both his scornful anger and his cock, and fuck. It took him a while before he could come clear about _that_ choice.

Eventually he showed up in her bedroom one night, weeks later. Caught her right as she was exiting the shower with only a towel wrapped around her damp skin — a view he still has fucking _dreams_ about. 

She barely displayed any surprise at all to see him in her oh-so-perfect bedroom, and he likes to entertain the thought that maybe she pulled on a show night after night like a fucking maniac, expecting him in vain to finally show up.

Truly this was, is, and will remain the only time he ever let her fucking win.

And things... sorta snowballed from there.

It doesn't mean that he's forgiven her, though. Nah. Nor that he's no longer mad at her for all the shit she's done to him. He still is. He's just — done punishing her.

So they kept spicing things up, mostly in neutral places. Better not cross too many lines at a time, yeah? But the thing is... nobody can seriously pretend a mattress isn't comfier than desks and walls for this kind of game. Otherwise your back hurts like hell on the next day and it's a whole other shit-show.

Some people have jobs to attend that they can't perform with a sore lower back, he reckons as he's pulling over in a dark alley and turning off the ignition.

And then at some point it started to make sense that he'd take a nap in her bed at fucking 2 am, all energy spent on properly railing her. And as far as he knows, there's no official limitation to naps duration.

He's always made it a point of honor to be gone by dawn, though. Screwing her in broad daylight would completely fuck up the point he's tryna making here.

Anyway, napping with her originated an unexpected whole new problem. Cause Elizabeth appears to be the clinger kind. Not — well, not that they'd cuddle _intently_. Christ, no. But it's become unfortunately common for him to wake up in the middle of the night, wearily disoriented, to find her wrapped around him like a lil barnacle clinging to a marine rock. Disentangling her from him is a whole circus. Every. Fucking. Time.

As he climbs out of the G-wagen, he squints at a mashed bug sticking to the windshield. Ew. He pulls out a tissue from his pocket and scrubs the glassy surface with cautious circling movements. You gotta remove these things right away otherwise they leave traces. And he likes his windshield clean.

The milky shape of the moon reflects on the now smooth surface, reminding him of all these times he's left her house in the mild darkness.

He never wakes her up when he leaves. Hasn't told her how fucking _cute_ she looks when she's got her face pressed against his ribcage, one arm splayed across his torso. She would hate it so much it'd probably be hilarious to watch. So he's keeping that weapon for later, for when he'll need an extra heated argument or whatever.

Although... he ain't exactly sure that telling her would be his smartest move. There are serious odds that she'll go nuts about this and forbid him the reward of her bed to make sure it doesn't happen again.

And it's — well, this ain't a wish he's willing to see come true. Cause it's not _unpleasant_ either, seeing this wholly different aspect of her. Bein' able to breathe the same air without starting to yell at each other in the minute and whatnot. Bathing in her warmth, her softness, her silence. Everybody needs — fuck, _deserves_ — a respite once in a while.

Not sure she'd see it that way though. Elizabeth behaves like a fucking lunatic whenever it comes to demonstrating that this thing between them doesn't mean anything at all beyond what it strictly is.

He straightens up with a sigh. Alright. He didn't come all the way here to clean his fucking car. The warehouse's right there, stuck between a crappy bar the existence of which is already a mystery and a logistics center. It's not unknown territory, though.

Marchetti's probably already arrived with his guys cause he recognizes their sketchy van parked a little further on the curb, and Rio mentally disconnects Elizabeth from his brain. Can't afford to have her up there _all the time_ , even on quiet nights.

Except for as it turns out, it is _not_ a quiet night.

He's barely thirty seconds into the meeting when a violent shock at the back of his head propels him on the ground with no fucking warning, and his conscience lights up for a split second before it shuts down.

Fuck.

Sometimes his guts are wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I'm truly blown away by the amount of love and incredible reviews that this fic has received so far and it really warms my heart to see how so many of you care about these old idiots!! ❤️❤️❤️
> 
> See you next week for the resolution of Rio's wheelchair scam!


	5. What scars are for

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, where were we, back in the Nursing Home? All right, Beth barged into Rio's room to find him _standing up_...
> 
> Also, I realize that not everyone is on Tumblr so I uploaded the weekly moodboards crafted by [gangfriend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gangfriend/pseuds/gangfriend) to each chapter's summary because I love them so much. Enjoy!

"What happened to your leg?"

It spills out of her lips instantly — and maybe in a little too concerned manner for her liking — when he takes a few small steps towards her and she notices the _limping_ , his left leg blatantly uncooperative to the task. 

He takes a pensive sip from his cup and carefully drops it on the small-angle desk before his eyes meet hers.

"Got shot in the thigh a coupla years ago. My leg's been actin' funny ever since. And the wheelchair's quite faster, you should try it," he says, a playful smirk on his lips, the obvious mockery of her own snail pace not lost for her.

"So you can take three bullets in... um, the _chest_ without permanent damages, but one shot in the thigh and you're paralyzed?" she asks, incredulous.

Because — well. That's unexpected. Somehow she'd eventually accepted the idea that this man was literally indestructible. And she's unwilling to scratch how it makes her feel to find out that he's not.

"What can I say, they knew how to aim," he mocks with a pointed look, and she rolls her eyes.

In a way or another, it seems that they're always crawling back to _that_. Always have. Not that they actually ever mentioned it in such explicit terms ever since he raised his glass to her aim in a sinister manner.

But...

In the past, it used to constantly resurface through sharp glances and vague, non-threatening allusions. As if they couldn't help themselves from building an uncrossable wall between them, despite their apparent thaw.

And even now, even thirty-something years later, even angry with him as she is, that simple evocation is enough to tie a knot of disgust in her stomach, guilt taking over her own, furious list of grieving recriminations.

"I thought we were past this," she murmurs, disappointed. Perhaps vaguely ashamed too.

"Yeah you never get past summin' like this, darlin'," he utters, low. "Whatchu think scars are for?"

He shoots her a pointed glance and she swallows, mentally granting him the point.

_Touché_

She remains silent for a minute, words paralyzed deep in her throat, until he snaps her from her trip down darker memory lane.

"So? Why you here?"

There's an edge of impatience to his tone, and — right. She didn't come here to ask him about his leg and bring back painful and traumatic memories that they'd probably both rather bury deep in some hidden place that even themselves wouldn't risk stumbling upon by accident.

Her head shakes the moment off and she bites her tongue, sits on her pride as hard as she can.

"Right, um... I have. Reconsidered your offer."

Part of her sort of wishes he told her that the offer no longer stands on the table, gave her an easy escape.

But instead he grins, feral. Because of course he would.

"And?"

"I'm in," she says in a scurried breath before she gets the chance to regret this.

His smile broadens, frankly predatory this time.

"Ah, darlin', too bad you missed the early birds' fee, though. Now I'll take forty percent. Cool?" he asks with lamb eyes, all wrapped in faux innocence.

And she's not even sure that he actually mentioned the amount of his cut the last time they talked about this, but the one thing she knows is that she's going to murder him, someday. She really is. She lets out an exasperated sigh.

"You can't just change the rules as you please!" she protests.

He shrugs, a smile that manages to be both irritatingly triumphal and fondly sweet tugging at his lips, "What can I say, I've got other bidders, honey."

And — just like that, she knows that he's got her wrapped around his little finger. And the worst part is that he knows it too. She hates Asmita too much to ever take the risk of calling his bluff out and discovering that it's actually a real thing.

She blinks on the nightmarish vision of him and Asmita partnering in the destruction of her, and a murky feeling that she dare not read into wakes up, deep in her belly.

He's — _hers_. To work with. Mess with. Hurt about. And nobody else's.

"Huh," she realizes out loud at this unexpected upsurge of — of whatever this is.

Rio chuckles, still parading around and spectacularly oblivious of her epiphany, "Yeah, well what did you—" he starts, but she cuts him, firm.

"Fine. Deal," she says.

She's learned the hard way how his ascending slopes work. Better take his offers as soon as possible before his cut gets bigger than her own profit.

"Cool."

He winks before he closes the distance between them, his naturally feline smoothness somehow enhanced in a pleasant way by his limping. He offers her his hand to shake and after a short hesitation she takes it, tries not to think about how it makes feels, the sight of her hand disappearing into his, the warmth of his skin.

Without letting go of her hand, he takes one step closer, and as soon as he's near enough for her to _smell_ him, she has to briefly close her eyes and repress a shiver, overwhelmed with memories. At least the wheelchair prevented him from getting too close, but now that she's reconnecting with his height, with the way his eyelashes draw a pretty shadow on his cheekbones as he looks down on her, with the simple feeling of his presence around her, it's — it's enveloping her like a cloud of hallucinatory smoke.

And she hates that this old trick is still working.

"One more thing," he adds in a raspy whisper, and her eyes snap open, because here comes the icy shudder that she's learned to anticipate. "My booze guy, he's got... other products to move too. So Imma need that customers list of yours."

A vision of shady cars freshly deported from the Canadian border raises in her mind, and she tries to remove her hand from this already twisted partnership, but he only squeezes tighter on her fingers, lets out a warning tut.

"You won't get another shot, honey," he hisses.

God, she hates him.

Sundays are visits days.

Well, it's not that they're _forbidden_ the rest of the week. The place is not a prison despite how it feels sometimes. But most families visit their elderly on Sundays. The ones that do, at least. So unless there's someone here for her too, Beth generally avoids the lounge on Sunday afternoons, the places filled with children's screams and way too much buzzing activity for her to be inclined to bathe in it.

It's too depressing.

But today Annie's coming, which means that Beth will dignify the ground floor with her presence and has spent an extra half hour at making her hair curl and bounce the way she wants it to, putting a discreet layer of rouge on her cheeks and crimson on her lips. She makes a point of honor to always look good and fine, but especially when it comes to external visitors. Beth is aware that Annie's already feeling guilty enough for living the life outside while she's abandoned her sister here. Her own words. So she'd better not top that with letting her know — _think_ — that she may not be so happy in there. Happiness is an overrated concept anyway.

She waves an insincere hand to Lauren — the latter visits Asmita practically every week, and Beth suspects that the main reason for that is that Lauren is bored as hell at home ever since her husband retired — as she walks across the common lounge and finds herself a seat in a far corner. She knows Asmita and Lauren's techniques. It wouldn't be the first time they'd join her and rave about good old times while Beth desperately waits for Annie who'll — as always — show up late.

To her relieved surprise, Annie is _barely_ late today, three minutes top. Well, that's unusual. And Diane's as sloppy when it comes to following the schedule so it's definitely not her presence at Annie's arm that will explain that.

Oh.

Now that makes sense. In Annie and Diane's wake emerges Ben, and Beth can't help her huge grin blooming from ear to ear. Ben's never late at anything. He probably pestered his mother from the early morning until Diane and she scurried out of their house.

The greetings and hugs make Beth's chest swell. She hasn't seen her nephew in _ages_ , actually didn't even expect for him to be here at all today.

"I thought you'd already be back in New York by now, hasn't the term started yet?" Beth asks, and in the corner of her vision she sees Annie making some sort of I-told-you-so hand gesture to Diane who giggles back.

Ben teaches social studies at Columbia.

"They put it off by a week." Ben smiles. "So I get to spend more time with mom! It's so good to see you, auntie Beth!"

"I mean, he didn't tell us either," Annie points out. " So picture us, flying back home from Peru completely jet-lagged last Friday, and guess who rings at the door on the next morning?"

"Mom, you weren't jet-lagged, Peru and Michigan are _literally_ on the same time zone," Ben sighs with a comical frown, "And I wanted to surprise you!"

Annie opens her mouth to retort to her son's teasing, and Beth turns to Diane, "How was Peru?"

Diane is one of those people who only seem to embellish with time, shining and beaming as if she were illuminated from the inside. She never cut her long curly hair, the rich darkness only disrupted by a few fragments of silver here and there despite her almost sixty years old, the bright colors of her giant earrings giving her the bohemian look of a retired folk singer.

"Aw, Beth, it was absolutely gorgeous!" she exclaims.

And Beth should hate the happiness that she radiates, but Diane's smile is too communicative for that. Her eyes seem even more remarkable than before with the way her face sharpened with time, the dark irises shining with genuine joy as soon as she starts narrating their Andean trip.

Soon Annie joins the conversation, finishes Diane's anecdotes, and Beth can't help but bless the day these two met. It was shortly after Rio's... departure. Annie had settled weekly dinners at the Hills as a new tradition, and although her young sister would never admit it, Beth has always known that it was mainly designed to cheer her up.

Not that she ever told Annie or Ruby about the specifics of her interactions with Rio, back then. But they could tell that she was worried. She — well, she wasn't exactly _good_ at hiding her anxiety at that time, despite how well she thought she nailed it. There was just too much going on and she — 

Never mind.

Long story short, Ruby having eventually overcome her initial defiance toward Stan and Diane's strange friendship, the latter happened to spend time with the Hills quite often. Until both circles naturally mixed.

Annie and Diane's encounter was... _unexpected_. Probably on both sides. A love at first sight apparently obvious for every protagonist in the room but them, if their painful-to-watch awkwardness was anything to go by. Until Ruby loudly insisted that she needed both and specifically Stan and Beth to help her with the dishes in the kitchen.

Diane and Annie have been inseparable ever since, and Beth is quite positive that Diane is the second best thing — _person_ — that happened to her sister after Ben.

Annie suddenly cuts herself in the middle of her colorful account of a disastrous hiking trip around the Machu Picchu, emits a strangled gurgle instead.

"Oh my God, is that... is that _Gangfriend?_ "

Beth's head spins instantly, and oh, crap. It's visits day for him too. In the middle of the lounge, several armchairs and coffee tables away, a tall silhouette is bending over Rio's wheelchair in a warm and enthusiastic hug. She swallows nervously at this unexpected glimpse of a father-son moment. A sight she doesn't want to see.

"Yeah. About that..." she starts feebly.

"Please tell me that you're not —" Annie shoots a quick glance around her before silently articulating a word that looks very much like _'boning'_.

"Hey Di, can you show me those llama pictures you mentioned earlier?" Ben loudly asks all of a sudden, an edge of annoyance piercing through his relaxed tone, and Beth sends him a grateful look.

Diane knows... a bit. About before. But unless Annie recently went through an unlikely phase of guilt and remorse, there are still some events that she's fairly ignorant of, and Annie sounds like she's about to enter some forbidden territory of locked memories right now.

Ben knows everything, though. Which probably explains his barely concealed annoyance every time Annie brings up the past and incidentally makes him create a diversion. Diane and he fall into a vortex of animal pictures aww-ing, and Beth's eyes snap back to Annie.

"No!" she protests, mostly because the simple fact that her sister seems pretty confident that Beth couldn't keep it in her pants even after what Rio did is _outrageous_.

"Huh," Annie provides, staring at him across the room with the focus of a predator, her pointer finger tapping angrily against her chin. "Then I guess I'm gonna rip his head off," she adds with the detached tone of a mundane suggestion. "He doesn't look so scary anymore in a wheelchair, and after how much he hurt you, he —"

"Hey, nobody _hurt_ anyone!" Beth objects with a scowl, "Don't be so dramatic."

It's not _entirely_ true, if she's being honest. But admitting it feels like a weakness that she's unwilling to display in front of anyone, especially her sister.

"But there have been some changes regarding... _special drinks_ supplies," she adds, diverting her sister's attention from this slippery path she refuses to enter.

Saying that Annie is displeased to hear that Rio has snaked his way into a business deal with her would be a massive understatement. If anything, she's glad that she won't have to carry so many heavy bottles the next time she visits. But there's worry painted on her face, the crinkles at the corners of her eyes not giving her this gleeful look that she normally wears.

"Be careful, Beth," Annie eventually warns under her breath, an instant before Diane and Ben refocus the general conversation on everyone's plans for Thanksgiving.

Eventually the part that Beth hates the most about visits happens. It comes to an end. Always does. She watches with greedy eyes the trio leave the room for the wide external world, takes the usual pang in her chest as the shroud of loneliness falls back on her shoulders, her fingertips manically rubbing the soft poncho made of alpaca wool that Annie gifted her as a souvenir from Peru.

All of a sudden the other families still gathered around are unbearably oozing with love, and she needs air.

She's about to retreat to her room, props herself on her elbows to extricate from her armchair when someone makes a stop by her side on their way out, and she's met with the curious gaze of Marcus, carefully studying her.

"You were right, I do know you," he eventually says, frowning in concentration. "You're little Jane's mom, aren't' you? You used to give me cookies and juice boxes when I was a kid," he realizes with a spark of triumph shining in his brown eyes and a genuine smile blooming on his lips that painfully remind Beth of his dad's.

In her periphery, she catches sight of Rio pushing his wheelchair closer to them, something bordering with frenzy shading the motion of his arms. Even without looking in his direction she can tell that he's irradiating with the outrage that his _precious_ son might even interact with her.

So she pulls on her sweetest smile.

"Oh yes, I do remember you. Marcus, right? I can't believe how much of a grown-up you are now!" she raves ecstatically. "Please, tell your mother I said hi!"

Marcus's smile broadens, and it's irritating what an exact portrait of his father at the same age he is.

"I will!" he nods with enthusiasm.

In Marcus' back, Rio shoots her a homicidal glance and she beams at him, quite proud of herself on that one.

If he wants the war, oh.

He'll have it.


	6. A liquid stream of nacre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's drugs. The other product Rio intended to move. At least that's what she infers from bumping one evening into a gleeful and frankly giggling about nothing Mr. Karpinsky — her late neighbor's son — in the hallway.

And Beth isn't stupid. She's got eyes to see who visits Rio on Sundays. His son isn't the only old acquaintance she's caught glimpses of. And Mick never misses an occasion to nod a friendly hello at her from the other side of the lounge.

Of course the place doesn't turn into a geriatric junkies' house. It's more subtle than that. She suspects that most of Rio's business involves prescription drugs — hasn't it before? — along with maybe a selected smorgasbord of soft hallucinatory ones.

At least Gina seems to have fewer migraines, so there's that. Beth gets to see her more often. Of all the residents, Gina is the one Beth likes the most. She's gleeful in a way that Beth could never be — doesn't anything ever frustrate this woman? — but she has a good time talking to her. Gina is the kind of old lady who seems perpetually happy and enthusiastic, and — granted — very high these days.

Plus she's one of the very few people here that Beth didn't use to know from PTA, book club, the kids' school, or one of the multiple workplaces she's navigated over the years, which means that she doesn't have this pre-printed image of her stuck in her retina. Beth gets to be whoever she wants around her. Which is... relaxing.

She doesn't know for sure, obviously. About Rio's business. Talk about a change, since this maniac won't share any important detail with her every time they briefly meet to exchange sales numbers and balance their profits.

Oh, he's still his annoyingly teasing self, it's not like they're acting cold or — or _hostile_ to each other. At least not on his side. But at this point, it's no longer an elephant that's lingering in the room but a whole zoo. They never mention the past, and sometimes it even feels like they just met for the first time a month ago.

And not only does he keep her in the dark, treats her like the most basic employee — while she's regularly tempted to remind him that it's _her_ business he wormed his way into —, but more importantly he won't even acknowledge that she... he... they...

Never mind.

But the omissions? The secrecy? She gets fed up of it _really_ fast.

And it's not as if simply _asking_ was on the table. Instead... she'll do what she's best at. She waits for the next Tuesday afternoon because crosswords grids are always trickier this day and take him longer to fill. Improvises a stakeout in the lounge until she's sure that Rio's deeply absorbed in the game. Furtively toddles out in direction of his room, leaving him to the puzzled frown creasing between his eyebrows and the glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

She's not — well, she doesn't _enjoy_ this. It's just something that she has to do. Again. And it's distracting, at least. More thrilling than cheating at bridge.

Breaking into his room — which is located downstairs because of his wheelchair _issue_ , she tuts in reprobation — carries a strong feeling of déjà-vu. Obviously it's smaller, less furnished than previous glimpses she's had of his space. She recognizes a few things, odd pieces of modern art that she really doesn't get why _anyone_ would prioritize while on the cusp of packing for their last residency. She'd have thrown these horrors away ages ago if it had been up to her.

She searches every drawer, inspects shelves and cupboards, looks for a trapdoor in the ceiling, or maybe an unsticking tile on a bathroom wall.

She's in the middle of unscrewing the lid of the flushing tank above the toilet when she catches sight of a small oblong box stuck behind the desk. The little bathroom corner she stands in seems to be the only angle from which the thing is visible, and she takes the extra minute to check that there's not a plastic bag full of pills floating in the tank water before she steps back inside the room, crawls under the desk with a groan — clearly her knees and hips are no longer equipped to play hide-and-seek — and pulls out the box.

It's objectively a weird receptacle for stashing purposes. The lid slides aside under her fingers, and she stops breathing for an instant when she... no.

It can't—

It _is_.

The pearls cascade around her fingers like a liquid stream of nacre when she picks the necklace and squints at it. Just to be _sure_. But she doesn't need to check the little scratched mark on the clasp that she made during a moving out mishap to already know.

It's — disconcerting. Barely understandable.

Rio's never stricken her as blatantly sentimental. Even less after he...

Right. 

He _left_ , she slowly nods. He doesn't deserve keepsakes from her. It's... disrespectful. Insulting. 

Anger crackles in her ears and before she knows it she shoves the pearls in her pocket, back where they should have remained this whole time, and replace the box in its hiding spot. 

For one second she's tempted to set his room on fire, destroy it with a sledgehammer, anything. 

It's probably a bad idea though.

The whole point of the operation was... well. She doesn't feel like looking for drugs anymore. The moment's over, and she's lost the fun. All she's left with is sudden tiredness pulling every bone in her body.

She leaves the room without looking back.

Later that afternoon she exhumes a little envelope from her nightstand drawer. Powerless rage is still throbbing deep in her chest, and she's tempted to burn them all for good, handwritten notes she's been keeping for all those years.

It's not the first time that she experiences such temptation. It has happened before. Moments of hopeless fury when she'd wanted to draw a definitive line over this part of her past, get rid of any proof that it ever existed.

She never went all the way through it.

Just like she knows that she won't today because eventually, she would regret this. So instead, she drops the envelope back in the drawer with the translucent company of her necklace, before she turns the lights out.

Stories that never happened are like people. After they die, they stay alive inside mementos. And it's only when those memories are gone that they truly cease to exist.

Once a month happens social night, or so the staff likes to call it. It's basically an evening with catering instead of their usual dinner service and live music. Fancy clothes and dancing for those whose hips can still afford it.

It's _depressing_.

It's not that Beth disregards the concept. But it feels like such a pathetic attempt to recreate something that's gone and will not come back.

Also —

Those nights remind her of Phil. Make her miss him. A lot. He used to bring her to many similar work events, to dance with her. They — they did well together. Dean had always danced with the subtlety of a former quarterback, but Phil was a good dancer, and very easy-going when it came to socializing with people.

She always had fun at these parties.

But seeing that now, it feels... empty. Artificial. Tinier than a doll's house.

She does attend social nights, though, despite the burden. Mostly because it's the only occasion when she's allowed to drink in public, if she's being honest. Plus the food is actually worth the detour. When she's in a good hip day, she dances sometimes, mostly with Robert — or Harry, if she feels adventurous. Flirts a little, even.

But it's — it's not the same. She misses a real _partner_.

"You look good."

She startles a bit at the drawl in her back, turns to face Rio staring at her with an appreciative smile on his face. He's ridiculously handsome in his black jeans and white shirt.

And —

Standing up, graciously leaning on a black walking stick. Well, that's unsettling. She'd thought that he would show up in his chair to avoid unwanted solicitations. Or even not show up at all. She never exactly pictured him as the kind of person who would enjoy this type of party.

He gives a lingering up-and-down glance at the black dress and fancy heels that she only shows off on those nights because her knees will make her pay the heavy price on the next day. The way he blinks and swallows hard when his eyes finally catch sight of the pearl necklace adorning her neck is a pure delight. Oh, she checked. It still looks amazing on her complexion.

Her cheeks burn a little at the mesmerized expression on his face. But it's probably just the booze — _obviously_ she did warm up in her room before coming down, and while she's holding what's supposedly her first drink of the night, it's in reality her fourth.

"Thank you," she politely smiles without returning the compliment.

He walks past her to reach the buffet, and just— anything to stay away from his scent and the air he _breathes_.

She's about to step aside when he mutters under his breath, "Gotta talk to you, yeah?"

It's low enough that she's the only one who's hearing it but it just freezes her in her spot, struck by his menacing undertone. 

"Okay," she detachedly provides with a shrug before she inhales a sip of bourbon.

Liquid courage, Annie would have said.

She expectantly stares at him, and just when she's about to ask for an elaboration with her best PTA voice, he shoots her a warning glance, his chin imperceptibly pointing aside. That's when she clocks Asmita over his shoulder, wandering around the buffet in a blatant endeavor or eavesdropping.

"Oh hi!" Asmita eventually greets with a big smile — God, why are this woman's cheeks so _plump_? — when it becomes impossible to pretend that she still hasn't noticed the two of them.

Which is frankly the ultimate stage of ridiculous.

"Christopher! I didn't know you could walk," she exclaims, raising a brow at Rio.

And Beth's positive that a sudden light of interest flickers in Asmita's gaze, her smile broadening in a seductive fashion, her shoulders straightening just _that_ extra inch.

She rolls her eyes. So now that he's got functional bottom limbs, that makes him more interesting?

Please.

"Oh, yeah, yeah, my leg's got moods," he retorts with natural ease. "But you know what they say, huh? Can't pass on an occasion to invite a lady to dance..."

Asmita literally _lights up_ at this and Beth has to purse her lips hard to keep an affable face. Although right now, she probably looks like she's just eaten an entire lemon. Peel included.

Which has to be the moment when Rio nods at her.

"And this one could make a dead man walk, am I right, sweetheart?"

He shoots her a provocative grin, apparently very proud of himself, and God, could he stop with his dramatic reminders? His eyes remain cold though, threatening almost, and she nervously downs the rest of her drink.

"Actually, I don't really feel like dan—" she starts, already spinning on her heels, when he grabs her wrist in a quick catch.

"Don't. Do. That," he hisses, his eyes throwing literal daggers.

She stares at his broad hand firmly holding her wrist, the pressure just sufficient to make her wince without reaching the point of pain yet, tugs at it, but he only grips harder.

She rolls her eyes, already annoyed with him.

"What?" she snaps.

Without dignifying her with an answer, he drags her to the dance floor. Which is _foolish_. With her hip... And his _leg_... There's no way they're going to make it out of this still standing. Of course she gets his impulse to move away from Asmita's curious ears, but still. The effort seems a tad excessive.

His palm frees her wrist only to capture her hand, and she reluctantly grabs his shoulder, sucks in a breath when his other arm circles her waist.

Could they have this talk sitting in two chairs separated by at least one coffee table instead?

He guides her across the room in a vague and wobbly waltzing motion, his limping probably making their whole show painful to watch for an external observer, and she follows unhindered, hips numbed by her four drinks of the night. It's slow enough that they don't risk any stupid accident, but efficiently chaotic to prevent indiscretions.

Which is over the top anyway. Everyone around is already half-deaf, for God's sake.

"Why d'you search my stuff?" he grits between his teeth, keeping a charming face while his gaze oozes with venom, all playfulness vanished into thin air.

Their faces are close enough for him to speak low, and she shakes her head noncommittally, tries to focus on anything but the warmth of his broad palm on her waist, the smell of his cologne, their fingers entangled.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she replies with a little smile.

"Think you got summin' that's mine," he whispers, low and husky, his chin jutting toward her neck, and — right.

"It's actually min—" she wants to point out before she gasps as he abruptly spins them back in the opposite direction. Self-satisfaction tugs at the corners of his lips and it triggers her fury. "Creating this customers base took me _months_!"

It actually took two weeks. People are thirsty as hell in here.

"So whatchu want, a medal?" he drawls, pulling her a little closer.

And it's annoying, how little she resists.

"I want my share of whatever you're using me as a front for. I'm letting you use _my_ connections, I should at least get a cut and a licensing fee in return."

He's about to retort something when the music changes, turns into a slow, and they stop their nonsensical spinning. His hands move at her back and hip while she crosses her wrists at the back of his neck. And if she rests her forehead against his shoulder and closes her eyes, her nose buried in his shirt, it's only to make it easier for him to speak to her, his lips moving against her ear and triggering tickling shivers in her neck.

"How 'bout ten percent of the profit, no license fee?" he offers.

And _why_ is his breath so hot on her skin?

"Twenty percent and one grand for market access," she replies, mouthing at his shirt.

She's fairly aware that at this point, kissing him is only a question of angle. And she should straighten, and pull back, but — but God, she feels good where she is.

"Hey, I have costs too," he protests in a purr before he dives into one of these interminable and barely comprehensible tales that he only knows.

She has exactly zero interest in whatever business backstory he's attempting to provide. Whether he produces drugs out of his hat or gets it from the most dangerous cartel in the world, she doesn't care.

What she does care about is the surreal heat of his body around her. It's his hands on her, and his stubble grazing her skin. It's — well she shouldn't _like_ it that much, to begin with. It's hard to remember how much she hates him when she's lazily swaying in his arms. How much he hurt her when his lips are so close to her neck.

It awakes a somersault of broken pride though. She breaks the moment, interrupts his agonizing monologue.

"So are we doing this or not?" she asks, raising her head, moving away from his _mouth_.

Her mood switch seems to surprise him.

"Fifteen percent, no license fee," he deadpans, annoyed, and from his tone she can tell that it's his final offer.

She pulls on a diplomatic smile and a honey-dipped voice, "Okay. Deal."

But she's still in his arms, and they're still dancing, or at least pretending to. His eyes drop to her mouth and she swallows.

"Eyes up here!" she snaps, annoyed, because if he thinks that he can make a move as if nothing had happened — well. He's wrong.

He smirks when he meets her eyes again.

"Yeah..." he drawls. "Still so fucking blue."

He looks at her with awe in his expression, licks his lips, and she knows the logical conclusion of this path. And maybe she wants it too, just a little.

She shouldn't even be _thinking_ about it.

His hand travels up to her face, softly strokes her temple while he's still holding her tight against him, and she gets instantly mad at his arrogant assurance.

He doesn't get to have this. Not now. Not _ever_.

She freezes. Wriggles back. He instantly lets her go.

"Well, I'll see you next week for the business meeting then," she drops as convincingly detached as she can before she turns around and attempts to stride off the room.

Which is in no way efficient.

She's shaking from the effort of almost running on heels when she enters the corridor, still mad at him. And at herself. Halfway to the elevator, a large hand firmly grabs her arm and pulls her back, her scream lost in the noises of the party behind her.

There's anger in his eyes when she turns to face him — because of course it's him — and it twists something in her gut, the way his warm fondness has been replaced so quickly.

"Leave me alone!" she fulminates, yanking her arm away from his grip.

"Not until I talk to you," he grits back.

She crosses her arms over her chest.

"Fine, let's get this over with. I'm listening."

"Not here," he says, sending glances around until he drags her behind the door immediately next to them.

The ground floor bathroom. Obviously.

In one way or another, they _always_ end up in one of these.


	7. Dear in headlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Why you so angry with me?" he asks right after he's slammed the bathroom door shut, his hand still wrapped around her forearm, a severe frown enhancing the wrinkles on his forehead.

And she just — she can't believe his audacity right now. She stares at him in shock, almost speechless, before she abruptly yanks her limb out of his grip.

He doesn't get to _touch_ her.

"You... You left!" she manages to say, stating the obvious.

There's... confusion in his eyes. Which has to be another ruse of his that she refuses to buy. Because even considering the worst possible case of memory loss, he can't possibly have forgotten about _that_.

"Yeah I just said I was fetchin' a sweater," he retorts as if it was in any way relevant, and just — how dare he?

Of course he said that. Yesterday afternoon. At _bridge_. Her hands throw a vague gesture in the air while she tries to quiet the chaotic ire boiling in her chest.

"No, I mean... Before," she almost chokes.

The last word leaves her exhausted all of a sudden. As if saying it out loud had dispossessed her of her anger.

He looks — surprised, almost, like he didn't think she'd actually bring that up, as if his bridge nonsense was only meant to provide her an easy excuse to pretend that she'd never meant... what she means. A shade of pain briefly passes in his gaze as he swallows, making the wings of his tattoo perform a feeble quiver.

He inhales deeply and she holds her breath, suddenly willing to press pause on their lives. She's not ready. She's been waiting and dreading this moment for too long, she needs time to —

"Feds were breathin' down my neck," he starts, voice low. "And I didn't see it comin'. Cuttin' you loose was the best way to protect you. They'd have taken you down otherwise."

Well, that's — that's new. But also... this is the lamest excuse she's ever heard coming from him. She raises a challenging brow, refuses to let him destabilize her with _facts_.

"Well you could have told me that!"

He sighs, weary. Impatient. Perhaps a little sad too.

"Elizabeth... I only had time for one stop the night I crossed the border and I won't apologize for choosin' Marcus."

The blow hits, explodes somewhere in the left area of her ribcage, and she takes it without flinching. Of course he'd throw at her face the only argument that she can't ever counterattack. So much for her foolish hopes for an apology.

But then he looks back at her and she sees it in his eyes, the reflection of the same grief and regrets she's been feeling every day ever since his disappearance.

It's heartbreaking, truly. But it doesn't change what he did. Or rather what he didn't do. She joins her hands, entangles her fingers, phalanxes torturing each other, knuckles cracking, her body screaming a despair that she won't — can't — voice.

"That's not what I was asking. But... you could have let me know. After," she says, lowering her gaze. "I thought you were dead. I only found out years later that... you weren't."

A muscle twitches in his jaw, a shockwave perceptibly ripples in his eyes. Something frustrated, impatient.

"Hey, you didn't —" he starts but then he remains silent at the furious glare she opposes him.

He's in no situation to blame _her_ for anything right now.

"What?" she bites.

And then something slightly changes in his expression, he tilts his head and seems to carefully study her, his sharp cheekbones catching the pallid light falling from the ceiling. Eventually he takes a step forward.

"When the dust settled I tried gettin' in touch but you were married," he mutters in a feral drawl that sounds almost _jealous_.

Which has to be the most selfish thing she's ever heard in his mouth, and _there's competition_. It's — disrespectful, even.

"Didn't stop you before," she retorts, stepping back and reflexively crossing her arms over her chest.

Mostly to not let him see how much she's _heaving_ right now, breathing out years of frustration.

"Felt different this time," he says tersely.

There's a beat. The instant feels like a funambulism exercise from which either of them could fall any second. But she needs answers, and if she doesn't want to lose what's probably her last and only chance to get a few, she must keep her balance.

So she holds — for now — any poisoned arrow she might have ready to throw back at him. His eyes have darkened ever since he mentioned her second marriage, and when he takes another step closer, caging her against the sink's edge until they're breathing the same air, it's too much of a reminder for her to handle it.

"How could you?" she lets out in a shrieking exhale. "We were — "

She can't say it.

But it seems to unlock something inside of him. A stream of saddened softness combs through his eyelashes and he takes a deep, defeated breath. He's never looked so _old_ than in that instant, and she hates how much it strikes her. Hurts her.

"I'm sorry, Elizabeth," he whispers, gently squeezing her shoulder, and this time she doesn't break from his touch. "Didn't know you cared so much."

And maybe he intends for it to sound detached, but there's an edge of sincerity in his voice that has her breaking, words spilling out before she can hold them. Because as unlikely as it sounds, right now she knows that he means it. He _didn't know_. He thought — _he thought!_ — that she didn't care for him. Them. And that's enough to break the dam she's been fiercely defending for all those years.

"Well I — I did," she finally admits.

To him. To _herself_.

For a dreadful moment, neither of them dare to move, two deer caught in their respective headlights. It's a trap of honesty that she doesn't know how to escape, and she senses that he's probably as incapable as her to handle it. And what now? She's too afraid she might just shatter if she... if he... hell, she doesn't even know. Her confession is too enormous to remain ignored, and truth to be told, she probably won't make it out of here alive if he just leaves her with it.

But still, he's not moving, his eyes peering attentively at her as if she were a mystery that he's trying to solve, so eventually she breaks the silence in a shaky plea.

"Could you just...?"

It comes out more desperate than she intended it to be, but she just needs him to _do something_ , anything, to break this unbearable tension.

He blankly stares back at her, his expression unchanged, and God, he _can't_ be serious right now. But then he blinks, seems to emerge from a trance. His right hand reaches up to softly stroke the pearls around her neck, fingertips brushing her collarbone, and she sucks in a breath at the contact of his skin, at the focus in his eyes and the way his eyelashes still cast alluring shadows on his cheekbones. 

Then his palm slowly snakes up to cup her jaw, and she leans into his caress because right now, she needs him to touch her, needs to know that she hasn't just peeled off her heart for nothing, that _this_ wasn't a complete mirage.

It wasn't. If the mesmerized look in his eyes is anything to go by. He's been blatantly staring at her mouth for too many Mississippis for it to be accidental, and she gives him doe eyes that he doesn't even seem to notice. Which in other circumstances would be _hilarious_.

"Oh for fuck's sake, will you kiss me already!" she eventually signals, because _seriously_.

His eyes snap back at hers, surprised, and the beginning of a smile blooms at the corners of his mouth. It doesn't fully grow, though. There's hesitancy in his gaze, his demeanor, and when he finally leans forward, it's so slow that he gives them both a million opportunities to stop that train.

And she — she gets it. The countless reasons why this is a terrible idea. But she wants — needs — this. And she knows that he wants it too, or at least he looked very much into it fifteen minutes ago.

He presses his lips against hers, gentle and slow, but not lingering. It's painfully soft. Agonizingly chaste.

It's _barely_ a kiss.

And for a devastating second, she thinks that maybe she fooled herself in the belief that he wanted this too. Maybe he's just humoring her. Out of pity, remorse, or hell, for all she knows perhaps even _cruelty_.

But then he looks at her again, and she sees all the frustration and pain shining in his eyes. The longing and yearning she only knows oh too well. His fingertips twitch under her jaw, and when he surges forward a second time, she meets him halfway, closing the distance in a heartbeat.

She grabs him by the collar of his shirt with both hands and presses herself against him desperately, captures his bottom lip between her teeth and sucks into it until he opens his mouth and grants her tongue entrance. One second later, he slips a hand between her shoulder blades and pulls her into him with an overwhelmed little moan, and she feels something explode in her chest. Her brain. Whatever.

It's both familiar and weird at the same time, the way their mouths meet again after such a long, starving hiatus. It feels like thawing after a frozen winter. His lips aren't as full as they used to be, but he tastes the same. Kisses the same. Still pours those devastatingly soft little groans in her mouth when the feeling is just _too much_. 

He pushes her back against the sink, presses her against the cold tile until she can feel every angle of his body matching her curves, two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle finally embedded together. He used to say that he wanted to feel every inch of her pressed against him to make sure it was real.

He still does, she realizes with a gasp.

He wraps a warm palm around her breast as he deepens the kiss and a wave of pure desire surges across the barricade she's built years ago and shoots through her veins. She kisses him back forcefully, desperately, her fingers entangled in the soft fabric of his shirt, until his hands eventually palm her ass, start pulling her skirt up her thighs.

She instantly breaks the kiss, pushes him back a little, opens her eyes to the confused expression on his face.

"Bed," she pants, and he nods instantly.

Lights up, almost.

As pathetic as it sounds, they're too old to fuck against bathroom walls anymore.

They sloppily stagger out of the bathroom, a wobbly duet heading in the opposite direction of the music and cheering noises bubbling from the lounge, collapse lips on lips against the elevator wall, drag each other along the second-floor corridor and almost break her bedroom door.

Their lips are jointed again the second he slams the door shut behind them, his hand fumbling blindly in his back to push the lock while she clings to the collar of his shirt, and it's dizzying, feels like one of those dreams she's had too many times.

They kick off their shoes, immediately stumble on them on their way to her bed, crash on the mattress in a mess of flying clothes. She enthusiastically explores his chest with her hands, her fingertips grazing the small wooden elements of his bizarre necklace — why is he still wearing that?—, notices how his skin has lost some of its elasticity but grew softer, revels in the persistent firmness of the muscles underneath, strokes the grey line of hair under his belly button. There are some new patches of round softness around his waist that she instantly falls in love with, although her discovery is soon distracted by the way he unclasps her bra and yanks her panties down her thighs, leaving her in nothing but her pearls.

She palms his crotch through his briefs, reflexes kicking, finds him desperately flaccid. A wind of panic hits her lungs at the thought that she's not —

Well. Her body isn't what it used to be anymore. Her skin has waved goodbye to its alabaster perfection decades ago, the translucent pallor now marred with darker spots and bluish veins. Her breasts have long lost their glorious perkiness, dangling uselessly over her torso the minute her bra goes off, and —

"Yeah, gonna need a lil more time for that... Jeez, I ain't twenty anymore."

His voice pierces through her foggy vortex of worries and she catches his warm gaze, the amused expression on his face, how _comfortable_ he is with all this.

While she's not.

So she can't help asking.

"Did I —" she trails off, still spiraling in self-consciousness.

Maybe he doesn't like what he sees. Maybe he's disappointed. Maybe he's looking for a harmless way to get out of here and rip the mistake in the bud.

His expression alters as he clocks the distress that her face is probably fully reflecting by now.

"Fuck, Elizabeth, no! You're gorgeous," he assures her, voice low and gravely, eyes locked with hers, exuding something dark, and dangerous, and intensely erotic, and —

She gapes at him, surprised by his openness, by how far he's letting her see the effect she has on him, at least on his _brain_ while his body is no longer responding like it used to. And for a crystallizing second, everything feels like _them_ again.

Reminiscences of him relentlessly fucking her on her desk at the spa store, sucking hickeys in her neck and christening them with a groaning, "Fuck, you drivin' me crazy, Elizabeth."

Her riding him braless on the backseat of his ginormous monstrosity of a car, his pupils blown away by her show.

Countless times when they trailed off in the middle of a business-related sentence with greedy eyes before uncontrollably jumping at each other.

And all the — the _other_ times. The ones in her bed.

She missed those falling into place moments. So hard that she threw them into a pit of oblivion after he disappeared, incapable of staring at them. But now they're back, memories adorned with the dusty splendor of an old glory, and it feels like coming home after an agonizing journey.

She swallows nervously, gives him a little nod, and he kisses her, shallow at first, and then deeper, hands exploring her body, fingertips fondly stroking the ugly scar that surgery left on her hip. Soon his lips leave her mouth to drop open-mouthed kisses on her chest, her neck, to wrap his tongue around her nipple, and she digs her fingers in his back, refrains herself from chanting his name and completely blow up the protective dykes she's built around her heart, because even if he _might_ have had good reasons for it, he still left her, and she can't —

Well, she'll have plenty of time to think about that later.

He slips a hand between her legs, chuckles, and looks at her with the most annoying I-told-you-so grin on his face.

"No longer wet for me, huh?"

Which is. Embarrassingly annoying.

But she grants herself the luxury of smugness and slips her hand in his underwear to gently stroke his slowly hardening cock with one hand.

"Guess we both need time," she retorts.

"Gotcha, grandma," he smiles, moving down her body and away from her hand, and there's no time to protest against the endearment, or worry about her untrimmed bush, or — or anything, really, because the next thing she knows he's got his mouth circling her clit and she jolts back, electrified.

It's been literal _years_ since the last time someone touched her like, well... that. And maybe there was this part of her who implicitly thought that the mechanics didn't even — work, anymore.

 _Obviously_ , she'd been wrong.

His tongue and fingers drive her properly insane while he strokes himself once in a while, and she comes in a series of moaning gasps, her hands fisting the sheet, her attention-starved body desperate for more.

By the time he's made her wet and ready, he's finally hard, and she roams his upper body with greedy eyes as he travels back over hers, and —

That's when she sees _it_.

Back before he disappeared, she'd eventually gotten used to the sight of the scars on his chest. And although she can't say that she didn't shelter an ounce of misplaced curiosity regarding how they aged, she didn't exactly _try_ to look at them when she ripped his shirt off.

But she most certainly didn't expect — _that_. It's a new tattoo. Has to be. A stylized bird taking flight and connecting the dots she engraved on his skin in an inked constellation. Tail for spleen, beak for lung, wing for shoulder.

He frowns in confusion when he clocks the obvious shift in her expression, and she softly presses her palm against the new bird for only explanation, at lost for something to say. She doesn't know what it means, _if_ it means anything, and when she meets his eyes again she solely reads a conflicted enigma behind his dark pupils.

Something seems to have shut down inside him though, and he gently but firmly removes her hand from his chest, lacing their fingers as he brings it down, buries their jointed hands in the sheet.

She stares at him with apprehension, concerned that she might have ruined the moment until he smiles at her, whispers, "You still want it, sweetheart?"

And she has _a lot_ of follow-up questions to ask. But not when he's ripped her open to this level of honesty. Not when she's heaving for his lips, his hands, his cock. Not when her body is literally begging her to let it feel that way she felt with him again. 

So she nods, her head falling back on the mattress as he settles his hips between her thighs. As he kisses her, both their necklaces interlock, and he slowly — carefully, almost — starts to push his length into her folds, mouth roaming her jaw and neck.

It takes them... _a while_ , before he's fully buried inside of her and she adjusts to the sensation with a strangled noise.

"You okay?" he asks, and really... his attentiveness is _flabbergasting_.

"Yeah, I... It's just — been a while," she confesses, stress-biting her bottom lip.

He chuckles softly against her mouth before he starts moving slowly inside of her, and it just — feels like the last time they fucked was yesterday. It's no longer sexual compatibility at this point, it's sorcery.

He's stroking her desperately slow, although she's not sure that either of them would be in any capacity to move faster. She rolls her hips experimentally — something that has been forbidden to her ever since the surgery — and sure, she lost some amplitude, but still, he groans softly when she rocks her pelvis around his cock.

She sort of loses any kind of control after that, her body overwhelmed with long-forgotten sensations, every cell in her body suddenly intoxicated and screaming in exultation while his cock, mouth, hands, are playing her like a deranged harp.

Her orgasm is sloppy, bizarrely mixed with everything else to the point that she can't really tell where it begins and where it ends, drowned in the moment, and she finds herself on the edge again when he slightly increases the pace minutes later, chasing his own release.

And then she just needs a little more, and somehow she knows that he can feel it too, driving into her just a little faster, and she meets him halfway, but still, it's not quite enough, until he gasps her name in her neck as he's coming, and — and — it's _shattering_ this time.

There's only one man on Earth who knows how to breathe such life into the four syllables of Elizabeth.

She muffles her scream in his shoulder as he buries himself inside of her, and maybe she blackouts for a second or two.

They stay still for a while in the aftermath, catching their breaths in a chaos of limbs she doesn't really want to disentangle from. She's always loved feeling his weight on top of her while they both recover, her thumb absent-mindedly drawing small patterns on the back of his arm.

It feels like an eternity later when he straightens a little and kisses her with a fond smile.

"Wanna go back to that fancy shit?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So how are we feelin'?


	8. The psycho and the dork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back to Rio's 30 years ago POV in this chapter (last time was in Chapter 4 if you need a quick catch-up)

It's the sound of the slap rather than the pain shooting through his jawbone that wakes him up for real.

Opening his eyes was a bad idea. He instantly winces— why are these neons so fucking bright? — and a blade of ache pierces his skull. One of his cheekbones is _throbbing_ , and he tastes blood when he pokes his tongue out to wet his lips in a stupid reflex.

A transparent shape fades away from his immediate memory as he finally emerges from the sort of dream he was in while unconscious. It looked like Elizabeth. That phantom.

The next thing he realizes is that he's still in the meeting's warehouse, but tied up to a metallic chair. Which is fucking hilarious. Dipped in obnoxious irony. His fists have met with enough restrained dudes' faces to know that being on the other end bodes nothing good.

Fuck.

There's not a Marchetti in sight though. Only one of their goons — he's pretty sure his name was Ray. Or maybe Rick? — who probably has some BDE issues to solve. Cause those few additional punches in the face that guy gives him _after_ he woke up were _clearly_ superfluous.

He absorbs the blasts though, tries to keep his teeth attached. Can't do otherwise for now, and Rio won't waste his energy in fighting something he's got no control over. He didn't get to the top by acting without thinking first, that's for hotheads who think they're in one of these gangster movies and never see their thirtieth birthday.

And he knows that whoever planned this lil act must have had higher ambitions for him than his beating by some pathetic gangster wannabe. The dude's a fucking amateur who doesn't know how to properly hit someone anyway. There's gotta be higher shit coming. And look. It ain't that Rio's got an above-average high opinion of himself. But these are just fucking _facts_.

So instead he empties his mind, searches for something else to focus on. He mentally replays the phone call, looks for some oddness in the business he possibly missed lately, but a fucking other picture parasites his mind, out of nowhere.

See, Elizabeth's got this cute lil freckle on the inside of her left thigh that reminds him of a target, dares him to plant bullets shaped as kisses in it. It's fucking _distracting_. Although... well, at least it drives his attention away from the blood on his face. Will do.

Eventually a rusty door slam reverberates in the distance, followed by light footsteps artificially enhanced for dramatic effect. Ah, he knows the tricks, he ain't one to be fooled.

He mentally high-fives himself when she appears in his field of vision. He fucking knew it. They never actually met before, but Gretchen's been babbling non-stop about this gal for a while now. And these messy blonde curls and horrifying dressing choices of hers wouldn't go unnoticed by a blind person.

"Agent Donnegan," he greets, almost charming, teeth out in a bloody joker grin that he hopes will scare her a bit.

It better does, given how much the stretch stings.

It doesn't.

She stares at him, unimpressed. Bored, almost. Pulls out a cereal bar from her back pocket and rips off the plastic wrap with an astounding absence of care before shredding a huge bite with her front teeth.

He's gotta give her credit for that, she knows how to pull a fucking attitude.

"So I hear you've been diversifying lately?" she articulates through her mouthful, her jaws working a fascinating ballet of simultaneous chewing and talking.

It seems designed to annoy him. Probably is, on second thought.

He hates it when people act messy with food. Hates the sound of someone speaking with their fucking mouth full.

He holds his annoyance, though, gives her a light shrug. This is fed's bullshit. He's been there enough times to know that the best parade is simply to not engage with whatever fucking circus they'll pull out to break you. Especially cause Gretchen said that this chick's good at it.

"Didn't know you were so short on funding that you set offices in warehouses now," he counterattacks in a mocking drawl. "Jimmy wouldn't have tolerated this back in his days."

He blows a mental air kiss to Gretchen for having told him that good old Turner was Donnegan's supervisor when she started her career. Nothing better than the casual mention of a neat freak former boss to rile someone up, right?

She eyes him suspiciously and he smirks, quite proud of himself. Told ya. Cops are all the same. Although he misses Jimmy's brutal honesty sometimes. This son of a bitch was one of the dirtiest cop specimens he's ever seen, but at least Rio knew what to expect with him. The guy wouldn't exactly shine subtlety.

But Donnegan, she — she bugs him. He can't quite piece her together, doesn't know her buttons. She's at an Elizabeth-level of unpredictability.

Shit. He shouldn't have conjured Eliz— her name. Beginner's mistake. Now he's got alabaster skin all over his mind in the middle of a fucking life or death emergency.

Donnegan takes a step forward and another bite, and he tries not to get distracted with the cereal crumbs landing in the folds of her turtleneck as she does so.

She gives him a pensive look before she speaks, "Hear the music over there?"

And just —

What the actual fuck? Apparently, Elizabeth isn't holding a monopoly on random conversations. Right, Elizabeth. He re-centers his mind on the present, pushes away her creamy thighs, the beauty spot in the middle, tries to fucking calm down.

Now that it's been brought to his faltering attention, there is a perceptible low thrumming of bass surrounding them, a slight vibration in the concrete ground. He doesn't reply though, waits for Donnegan's next move.

She smiles, although her grimace reminds him more of the crocodiles he used to eye in Florida when he was visiting his grandpa as a kid than an actual human being sparkling with fucking glee.

"There's a bar next door," she enunciates with a raised eyebrow, as if unveiling a great mystery of the Universe for him, maybe expecting him to gasp in epiphany. "With a bunch of colleagues in it ready to swear that I was with them all evening. I'm deucing on the clock as we speak," she adds, stuffing the last piece of cereal bar down her mouth in a motion that she clearly thinks makes her look badass.

Nobody's badass when they're talking about shit.

This time his smile goes full Cheshire cat. Cause if she's on a tight schedule, well. He's got all night to mess with her plans.

"Aaah, they gonna wonder what's takin' you so long," he mocks.

She raises her eyebrows, somehow making her eyes grow bigger and bluer, stares at him as if she was doubting his sanity.

"Right..." she trails off, emphasizing the vowel as if she'd just remembered something. "That's exactly the question your son will ask his mother while you'll serve your time at Ionia Max! What will it be, fifteen? With a file like yours..." 

She negligently drops the last sentence while folding the now-empty cereal bar wrap in an insane amount of plastic wrinkling noises, her focus completely on the task at hand.

Man, this chick is good. And look. It's not like he doesn't _know_ the kind of ammo feds have on him. He ain't that stupid. But still, the frontal hit stings. Cause he's not sure he's ever been so close to being completely screwed. Makes it all sound more real.

Eventually she finishes her literal abuses on the plastic wrap and directs her eyes and attention back at him.

"Unless —" she abruptly interjects.

He sighs. Fucking dramatic maniac. Police interrogation is reaching over the top theatrics these days. As if they didn't both know from the very fucking start that she's here to offer him a deal outta the books.

"Unless what?" he caves, cause he's getting tired of her pointless mind game.

Right now all he wants is to patch a few cuts and bury his face between Elizabeth's breast. In her neck. Against her belly. Wherever she'll like as long as the warmth of her skin helps him forget about the night.

He wants to sneak into her bed while she's already asleep, just like that time he was supposed to come in but shit went down and he got held back. And he knew that with all her picket fence schedules and whatnot there was just no way she'd still be awake by the time he made it to her house but still. He came. She'd just half-opened her eyes to him prior to rolling in his arms, and he'd smelled her hair and kissed her neck, closed his eyes for a quiet hour before leaving. Elizabeth still thinks this was a dream, that he actually didn't show up that night.

It's the only time he's ever been in her bed and they didn't fuck. 

And he wouldn't mind a repeat as soon as this nightmare's over, but he doubts this is an even remotely available conclusion.

Donnegan crouches on her heels until she's eye-level with him, her pointy elbows resting on her lap and almost touching his knees. She stares at him thoughtfully, and he resists the urge to point out the cereal fragments still lingering on the top of her sweater.

"I could get you a comfier prison. Maybe even a shortened sentence..." she sirens, temptuous.

She lets the concept linger in the air for a moment, the echo of the last syllable bouncing off the walls of his skull. He knows what she's tryna do — an actual good cop bad cop act just by herself —, but he's in no mood to give her the space that her lil show requires.

"Alright, cut the crap, Donnegan. Whatchu want?" he barks, out of patience.

She has the audacity to pretend to _think_ about it. Christ. The dramatics have reached a fucking new high in federal police these days. Blame all these cop shows, for real. Now people think they need to make punchlines in real life to be taken seriously.

"If I tell you 'Beth Boland', which bell does it ring?" she finally asks.

He swallows back _in extremis_ his urge to snort derisively at her. Cause there's just — 

No. Fucking. Way.

He had it coming though. Knew that Donnegan was poking around Elizabeth and her dummy friends, prodding for some intel.

But she ain't got nothing on them if she's desperate enough to offer _him_ a deal. Pride blooms in his chest at the thought that at least Elizabeth learned _that_ lesson and didn't leave breadcrumbs everywhere in her wake like a fucking Tom Thumb willing to get caught only for the pleasure of batting the eyelashes of her baby blues in virginal innocence.

"Iunno whatchu talkin' 'bout," he grumpily mumbles.

"You do spend a lot of time around her, though," Donnegan points out, almost triumphant, cause obviously she's been witnessing the countless times he's been visiting Elizabeth.

Christ. She must think he's a fucking idiot if she believes that he's not aware of _that_. He is. Even has had an explanation ready from day one, way before it became its foreshadowed reality. And Donnegan's just another butterfly he'll pin on the cardboard of this alibi. He barks a sinister laugh.

"Nah, she just this chick I bang. Why, you jealous Phoeb's? Wanna hit that? That why you been followin' her around with puppy eyes?"

It ain't that he — well, he supremely _hates_ talking about Elizabeth this way. He'd cap the ass of any of his boys who'd even say a tenth of it. But Donnegan won't buy his housewife and gangbanger fantasy unless he shows absolutely no respect for Elizabeth. Makes it sound like she's just a — a pleasant _glove_ for his cock.

The fact that Donnegan obviously knows it ain't just _that_ doesn't matter. As long as she's got nothing to tie them together, business-wise, then Elizabeth is safe. Least Rio hopes so.

Cause — That's what business partners are for. Keeping the house up and running if someone has to go away for a while. Which might happen to him real soon, if he doesn't shiv his way outta this fast and clean. And he can't afford to drag her with him in his fall.

Also, the thing is... Well. Elizabeth can act like a cold heart bitch, for sure. Is one, in a way. He's been on the receiving end of her wrath enough times to know. But. She wouldn't make it through this. Not in fucking _prison_.

She wouldn't navigate the penitentiary jungle damage-free. Won't struggle her way there with bake sales and outraged calls to motherhood. Don't get him wrong, though. He _loves_ that she seems to genuinely think that she's hardened enough for that. It's fucking adorable, and he has to bite the inside of his cheeks not to go full cheesy grin at the thought.

But. Point is. Anything about her is off the fucking table.

Donnegan leans slightly forward, stares at him with the fascination of a snake ready to bite its prey. That's when the realization hits. This is what she is. A prey hunter.

"Is that right?" she inquires, her pointer finger suddenly landing on his roped forearm, making his muscle twitch as her freshly painted nail scratches his skin.

Christ.

Why the fuck is everyone so obsessed with Elizabeth?

He swallows back a hiss as she digs a bit harder, leaves a bright red mark in her wake. He holds the daring gaze of her blue eyes, so fucking pallid. But not like Elizabeth's: the latter's are stormy oceans, constantly troubled with the tempests born from her fury. Donnegan's eyes are quiet as a pond reflecting the April sky. But he knows this apparent calm is just hiding the bubbly mud underneath, shining with barely concealed greed.

He shrugs, twists his lips in a disdainful smirk, "Yeah she got assets, don't you think?"

Donnegan hums absent-mindedly, breaks the contact between them, slowly gets back up on her feet.

"Oh course..." she trails off, examining her nails, clearly overdoing this. He fucking _knows_ she's cracked Elizabeth's lil crew's nail-polish code, there's no need to be so disgustingly dramatic about it, Jeez. "I mean it's understandable," she starts again with a shrug. "The Marchettis were expanding. You got in their way, scores were settled. It's too bad... Happens every day."

She shoots a glance at the idiotic goon who looks like he's already growing a boner at the prospect of lodging a bullet in his head, and Rio curses under his breath.

She clocks it.

"I know, right?" Donnegan exclaims, face lighting up with unhinged enthusiasm, as if he finally _got it_. "What a bummer..."

The guy behind him cackles obscenely and Rio's mood turns frankly homicidal. Donnegan glances at her watch, startles dramatically.

"Huh! Time to flush the toilet," she pompously announces. "I'll leave you to Randy here," — _Randy!_ — " and I'll come back powder my nose in... about an hour. Make sure you made a decision by then," she adds on her way out.

She leaves him completely _enraged_. He's a fucking idiot. Who royally fucked up this time. He tugs on his wrists, tries to break the arms of the metallic chair, but nothing moves and he lets out a frustrated groan. Fuck, he didn't plan for this evening to come down to getting killed or whatever by the Marchettis who'll jump on any occasion to expand, or choosing the big House and taking down Elizabeth with him. That's fucking —

Shit.

Death ain't no option. Obviously. Odds are that Donnegan's been bluffing on that one, but he's not sure that's a chance worth taking. Donnegan's a mystery to read, and he basically can't tell if anything about her is genuine or calculated, whether she's a smart-ass psycho or an annoying dork. That's why she's so good at this shit, why her bluff is so hard to call. And he owes it to Marcus. And to Rhea. Yeah. Staying alive. But —

 _But_.

They won't tell _her_ that they made him choose. She'll think he betrayed her and that's it, and it's —

 _Fuck_.

His mind angrily erases the memory of Elizabeth's asleep warmth from any secret corner of his brain. He won't sneak under her covers tonight. Maybe not ever. In one way or another, she's fucking lost for him.

An hour. That's all he's got.

Problem is, he can't _think_ straight for once, every thought slipping through his anxious fingers. It takes him forever to harbor the idea that maybe _Randy_ is flippable somehow, despite his blatant desire to break Rio's fucking teeth one at a time.

"Whatever they give you I'll triple it," Rio deadpans in the silent space, hoping that the guy behind him isn't the kind of psycho who'll shoot at the mere sound of his voice.

There's no answer.

Instead, Rio hears a series of gunshots behind him, and Randy suddenly appears in front of him, collapsing on his stomach, hands clutching his ass — a picture, really — and screaming like a pig in the slaughterhouse. Pain erupts in Rio's thigh the next second, and as he blinks through a curtain of white-hot pain he makes out a silhouette knocking Randy unconscious before turning to him.

"Shit. I shot you, boss," Mick realizes, his expression soon decomposing into dismay.

And — and despite the pain, the horror, the fury, Rio can't help the manic laughter that erupts from his chest, because come on, this _has_ to be the most hilarious thing that happened to him since Elizabeth shot him.

"Yeah..." he manages to say, tears of hilarity running down his face, his voice hoarse with pain, "Yeah you fucking did."

And then he passes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I have to knock Rio unconscious to get the story and POV back in control, this man loves the sound of his voice too much, jeez!


	9. To be chosen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forget about season 4, welcome to season 34!

It — happens again.

Not on purpose. _Obviously_.

Just because they fell into bed together — again — doesn't mean that things are in any way warmer between them.

Just because a part of this concrete stone that had been weighing on her chest for thirty years fell off in this ground floor bathroom doesn't mean she forgives him.

It doesn't change anything. She doesn't care for him.

But.

But Rio happens to mirror her indifference, in a very annoying fashion. She sees him, hovering around in the lounge day after day, being his charming self with anyone, and it hits a string that she thought had stopped vibrating a while ago.

It seems that his leg is very conveniently feeling well these days.

When Gina giggles at his jokes, her pink powdered cheeks slightly blushing, it's not her that Beth sees. It's someone he coaxes into a car with a goodbye kiss. It's someone he hugs before leaving for the weekend with his son.

It's — someone _else_.

And it grows on her, this dull anger. This _need_ to just tell everyone that he's hers, as ridiculous as it sounds. But. She paid the heavy price to own this entitlement.

And all it takes for Beth to eventually decide that she's had enough of this game is one of too many bourbons on charade night — the staff is _very_ imaginative when it comes to masking the ambient boredom under meaningless activities, and _she_ 's very imaginative when it comes to hiding bourbon flasks in the seemingly endless folds of her wool plaid.

This time it's Asmita who's looming over him like a bird of prey, all assets on display, and Beth wishes she could just make her glass explode in her hand from the sheer force of her annoyance.

Annie would have liked the image.

But all she manages to do is turn her knuckle white and leave a condensation mark around the cold walls of the glass, so she eventually drops it on a coffee table in a neat clunk and stands up with a weary groan.

She's got a mess to clean, and her joints' disapproval won't stop her. She steals a dice on the way to stress on her point.

"Hi, sorry to interrupt," she cheers with her best sugar-coated smile, and God, she's _dying_ to inadvertently crush Asmita's foot. "Can I talk to you for a sec?" she asks Rio.

He shrugs, flashes a smile at Asmita before locking eyes with Beth.

She can't say she doesn't enjoy bathing in his focused attention for a little longer than necessary. 

"Summin' wrong?" he asks, devoid of malice, and from his frown she can tell his mind is racing about business.

"Not here," she whisper-shouts, breathless, savoring the explicit closeness of them that she displays _in public_.

Rio raises a brow, politely inquiring what this is about, and — crap. What _is_ this about? She actually didn't make any further plans than this, and dragging him away with a mysterious face to eventually stupidly gape at him with nothing to say kind of ruins the theatrics.

This was a terrible idea, she realizes. Maybe if she disappears right now they'll all be able to pretend that this never happened. She shakes her head.

"You know what, it's nothing actually. Never mind," she articulates with a fake smile.

Without even looking back, she spins on her heels and heads to the corridor, eager to find the non-judgmental comfort of her room.

He follows her. Because of course he does. Stops her mid-corridor with a sonorous tut.

"What was that 'bout, Elizabeth?" he inquires, frowning in a mix of confusion and annoyance.

That's the moment when she realizes that they're both alone and out of sight from the lounge.

"I—," she trails-off, suddenly out of follow-up plan.

Which is exactly what she's been trying to prevent with her hasty retreat. Because she's not going to make a _scene_. Even less tell him what's bothering her.

But he's still staring at her and she —

He —

This was a mistake. Might as well make another one at this point.

So she kisses him.

Presses him against the wall before he can even protest, her palms cupping both sides of his face, and it takes him maybe half a second to kiss her back, hungrily, his broad hands landing on her hips, pulling her closer, inviting her to grind against him.

And it feels... good. To claim him. To be the chosen one in his orbit, with his hands all over her, squeezing her hips, kneading her ass, pulling her desperately close, erasing even the phantom of Asmita's greedy eyes.

She tastes the bourbon on his tongue, somehow wakes up from the trance.

She pulls away before she makes any more bad decisions for the day, reads the surprise in his eyes.

"That will be all," she softly says, her back stiff in an attempt at not letting him see how _unraveled_ she already is, how it would only take him a snap of his fingers to — to —

She turns away without one last look.

And she thinks that it's it. She — they — got it out of their system. But later in the evening, she hears a soft knock at her door. Opens it on his fully sardonic grin.

"You rang?" he drawls.

There's a sloppiness in his voice that she's learned to associate with drunkenness. God, he probably warmed up in his room before showing up at her door, scandalously late as per usual.

Not that she's in any better state regarding that department.

"Actually, you're the one at my do—" she starts but he doesn't let her finish.

He's on her in one step, covers her lips with his own and pushes her back into the room.

It's messy. Frantic.

They're desperately clinging to each other like drunk teenagers, still half-dressed when she pushes him down on her bed before straddling him — and okay, that last operation might have taken her a little longer than in her better days, and she may have let a few pained whines slip, but eventually she gets there. 

She's dizzy when she unzips his pants and wraps her hand around him to stroke his quarter-hard length, rubs him against herself with haphazard precipitation.

It's a _massive_ disaster.

She keeps trying with sloppy haste, fights the obviousness that neither of their bodies is ready, because she won't handle the — the mortification of this particular aftermath. She's not ready for this. And Rio tries to help, probably in the same lack of enthusiasm for their inevitable awkwardness, until eventually he catches her hand with a sigh, holds her hip firmly to stop her humping motion.

"Ain't gonna work like this, sweetheart," he coaxes her gently, tired almost.

And that's — that's new. That her body won't follow her desires _at all_. Obviously she's familiar with the knowledge that she has new, narrowed limits, has experienced a wide range of them already, especially over the past decade. But. She's never faced such an abrupt dismissal, her body literally shutting down, things not going as planned to a _wild_ extent.

That's a new low. Especially coming this way.

And the pent-up frustration is _intolerable_.

She climbs off the bed, all riled-up in angry energy, not knowing what to do with herself right now. What to do with _him_. 

God, disposing of useless bodies seems to be the story of her life.

It's not like she can snuggle in his arms and talk it out. That's not what they do. That's not what they crave. Theirs is a physical relationship of destructive passion, and if they can't have that anymore, then she's not sure she can spend one more minute half-naked in a room with him.

On the other hand... well, sending him back to his room _now_ would be a really, really dirty move. Even by her standards.

So she settles for the only valid answer she's ever known in such crisis.

"Hey, do you want a drink?"

"Have you been with, uh... _a lot_ of people, after..." she starts, quite unsure of where she's going with this, or even how to even formulate it.

They've spent the last hour in an awkward but slowly turning to comfortable silence, both nursing a drink at each end of the small coffee table in the so-called lounge-corner of her room.

For a while she escaped the moment by replaying in her head how this particular night would have gone for them twenty — or even fifteen — years ago. Eventually meditated on the slow decay of her sex life over the years. And then wondered about his.

He grins, a mocking spark flickering in his eyes, "You don't wanna know that, Elizabeth."

"So that's a yes," she infers, bitter.

"Hey, I ain't no monk!" he protests, brows furrowed with a beginning of annoyance, and she exhales a sigh she didn't even know she was holding.

It's... wildly inappropriate, the way his admission makes her feel. The pictures her mind unhelpfully provides as a result.

And it's not like she should have a say in whatever he chose to do with his freaking life over the past thirty years. But there's this familiar ache constricting her heart, this ball of anxiety bouncing in her stomach, and it's — well, in a way she owes it to Phil, this awareness of where it comes from.

Phil was a lawyer for an advertising company and his female coworkers were _gorgeous_. The kind Beth would never have been able to compete with. Amber would have been a five at best next to these corporate creatures. And Phil was... handsome. To say the absolute _least_. Even Annie gaped at him like a fish out of water the first time she saw him, discreetly pushed Beth on the side to ask her if she was _paying_ for this.

But he never, _ever_ , cheated on her. She knows that now. Knew that by then. Although it took her years to slowly close the Pandora's box of repressed insecurities that the fallout of her first marriage had opened. She had to, in a way. Phil and she were growing apart at some point because of it, mostly because _she_ was pushing him away.

He sort of lead her to open up to halt that train. Not that she ever stopped giving great importance to privacy though, _obviously_. But. She'd had to explain how her past had made it extremely hard for her to ever trust anyone, especially in the bedroom. How she was actually running away from any chance to get hurt again.

And that's — well, she never discussed that part with Phil, but yeah. At that time she also realized that on some level... maybe... this _might_ have played a part in the debacle of her partnership with Rio. Not that she didn't have a billion other reasons not to trust him about anything, but this... this probably hadn't helped.

She thought that maybe — maybe if she'd let him _see_ how she felt about them he wouldn't have left. Or... or maybe he'd still have had, which would have been worse. All things considered, she had done the right thing not to.

It's ironic though. How all this time-earned knowledge doesn't prevent her at all from doing the exact same mistakes, from this awful feeling of loss, the desperate need to be chosen.

She covers her mouth to muffle a yawn, disguises her anxiety.

"I'm going to sleep," she announces, vaguely moody. "You... you do you."

"It's 3 am, Elizabeth. If I go back to my room now, the whole place knows we're fuckin' by tomorrow," he points out, and she swears she clocks an edge of cockiness in his smile.

He has a point, though. There's a curfew for a _reason_. And although the mere idea of letting everyone know has some appealing aspects, it's — absolutely out of the question.

"Make yourself comfortable then," she nods. Before she blinks and realizes that there's only one comfortable sleeping spot in the room. 

And it's her bed.

Aside from the fact that he seems to believe that sleeping shirtless is an available option, Rio's not being an asshole about it for once. He's as careful as she is not to accidentally touch her or whatever, avoids any eye contact, settles as far as he can on the other side. The bed isn't as large as it used to be when she lived in an actual house, but it will do for the night.

Or at least she hopes so.

A grayish light of dawn is filtering through the curtains when she wakes up, blinking in confusion — and, granted, a dazing hangover — before she realizes that they're both entangled in each other's arms, her face nested against his bare chest, lulled by the regular sound of his heartbeat.

It's — weird. How this can feel so familiar and safe, while it's _not_ what they do. Did.

He never stayed until she woke up, that she remembers. They never snuggled like this. And it's — it's _annoying_ , how natural it feels.

Without even thinking, almost accidentally, she lets her lips brush his collarbone. Her touch is light as a feather and yet it's enough to wake him up a little, his hands gently slipping under her T-shirt to stroke her back, and there's just something about his warmth, or maybe his scent, or her own hangover, or — or _something_ , really, because things get unexpectedly out of control very _fast_ , his lips pecking her neck and her hands roaming his skin.

And while she's pretty sure that they're both still half asleep, while her brain is a mushy field of bourbonized clouds, inexplicably their bodies are... cooperative. When he starts mouthing at her breasts and her nipples burn from a need to be sucked out with an intensity that reminds her of breastfeeding, the heat irradiates _everywhere_ , pools low between her legs. 

When she slowly — because she literally can't go faster — slides down the length of the bed to take him in her mouth, her foggy mind registers the way his cock twitches at the contact of her lips, and — ah. It feels weird. She hasn't given head to anyone in years, but there must be some kind of muscle memory for that somewhere, judging from the way he seems to be enjoying it.

And when he finally guides her on top of him, hands securing her hips, gives her what she tried in vain to draw out of their tired anatomies last night, his mumbled "You got this, baby," shoots something sharp as an arrow in the middle of her chest.

And so it goes.

It doesn't happen that often, though. God, they're not young _rabbits_. But they're meeting on a weekly basis for business, which already provides a large pool of opportunities.

It's in the way he looks at her sometimes after they're done running through the numbers. In the way his fingers squeeze her waist when he invites her to dance on social nights, and in the way his fingers squeeze other women's waists on similar occasions. It's in the way she can't sleep sometimes, haunted by a feeling of loneliness that she can't ignore, and tiptoes down the stairs silently for half an hour to finally softly scratch the wooden texture of his door.

Or maybe — it just happens.

It's just _infuriating_ the — the prepping time they both need, though. They take turns to do the work, and she must say that he seems weirdly obsessed with a specific spot on her left thigh every time he goes down on her. And it's not that Beth doesn't enjoy the foreplay, God she really does, but there's something so _awkward_ in — in doing that. With him.

It's not that they never did it before either, it's just — it feels different. Embarrassing. Loaded. With silent grief and unspoken memories. With avoided glances and distracting whimpers.

It's too _intimate_.

And it's not like they can blow off some steam against a wall once in a while to counterbalance this dynamic. So the frustration just builds. Accumulates.

She's not sure of how far up it can go.

But she's noticed _patterns_. She... she might have a hard time stomaching his popularity among the other residents. Especially Asmita, but — women. In general.

Oh, she sees the way they eye him, how they fawn over him — what happened to basic decency, some of them can't even _walk_ for God's sake! — when he's contesting a game of pools against Robert or discussing a crosswords grid with Gina. And do _not_ get her started on his attitude during Drawing Tuesdays. He _always_ volunteers to model, revels in the unashamed glances he attracts.

Seriously. He could _not_ be more obnoxious.

And the thing is, she — she tends to claim him harder in private when she's been simmering in this very type of annoyance for several days. And he... well, he seems to enjoy it. Which might be exactly the point of his behavior.

God, she hates him. So much. Hates the power his every move has over her.

And yet.

She can't stop herself.


	10. Vitamins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the top of her head, Beth could recite two dozen fields where Rio antagonizes her. In the worst possible way. But working together is supposed to be the one thing they nail. Or at least tolerate.

Except that no matter how hard they practice after hours in the privacy of one of their bedrooms, it seems like they can't pick on each other's clues at bridge. While her bids are frankly _obvious_ , he's actually terrible at guessing them. These are just facts. Oh, they still manage to generally win the game, though, mostly because his cheating proficiencies almost equal hers. But any silent communication seems lost in the mail.

Or worse. Received completely wrong. Like that one time when he went for a color completely opposite to her game, and pulled an offended face when she reproached him for his obliviousness later.

And while he seems to believe that he's the most obvious player in the world, his own clues are improbably obscure. He gets ludicrously fussy when she points that last fact out.

Things often degenerate, after, because he won't acknowledge how much of a terrible player he is at this, while she — she's at least a _decent_ one. She was actually doing better before his arrival, which is a general statement that she'll throw at his face every time they start arguing.

And — and maybe it's cruel, but she knows that he can't answer to that. That despite appearances, and the time they spend together, she hasn't forgiven him. That she might have fallen back into some old habits but it doesn't mean that they're good.

He seems to have forgotten that lately.

Trying to fondle her hair with a warm smile after they're done with... never mind. Lighting up when she comes down for breakfast in the morning. Coming up with questionable excuses to schedule unplanned meetings.

And she — does not hate it. Can't bring herself to remember why she should get cautious of his sirens. How she's already been lured down that path and into that false sense of security, only for him to — well, that's not important.

But then he crosses another line.

One night, as they've just finished checking the books — or so they both like to call those since it's actually a bunch of notes scraped on a notebook — he doesn't get up immediately, doesn't invite her to leave his room as he usually does.

Instead, he flashes her an enigmatic grin before he says, "Gotchu a lil' somethin'."

He waves his eyebrows playfully before he brandishes his closed fist in a dramatic fashion. She raises a brow, expectant, and he adds, "Know what day today is?"

She frowns, lost in puzzlement. Is that —

Crap. He did _not_.

She scowls at him, because that is _not_ funny, but his grin only grows wider and fonder as he suavely wishes, "Happy birthday, Elizabeth."

These past few years, she's gotten so used to celebrate it a couple of weeks ahead, on Thanksgiving — it is more convenient for _everyone_ , really — that the actual date sounds almost alien to her ears.

Rio's fingers uncurl slowly, revealing a couple of pills, a blue one and a pink one, nested in the crook of his palm. She snorts at the overly gendered packaging before she looks back at him.

Is that — what she thinks this is?

"Huh?" she emits, because there's really not so much to say to _that_.

His smile broadens, "You said you didn't like to wait."

She sucks in a breath at the thought, bites her bottom lip reflexively.

"It's... Does it _work?_ " she scoffs, incredulous.

God, she can already feel her blush spreading way further than strict decency would allow.

His head falls back as laughter bubbles from his chest.

"Just ask Mr. Karpinsky!"

This is _not_ what she expected to hear. Her mind runs around the list of potential interpretations until she settles on the least disturbing one.

"Do we... sell these?"

"Honey, what did you think those V-pills on the list were?"

And — fine. She'd sort of stopped questioning the type of products that Rio moves under her storefront after the bedroom search incident. She made him provide a list, although she must admit that it was mostly for the symbol, she actually didn't _read_ through it with thorough meticulousness.

She's forever haunted by the vision of Annie popping an unknown pill in her mouth, tends to remain oblivious of what's happening in front of her as long as she gets her cut.

"Vitamins?" she tries, because it _is_ the obvious answer.

He smirks. "Yeah, sort of..."

There's a beat of silence after that, until he eventually lets out a throaty noise of expectation, and she delicately picks the pink pill between two fingers, examines it closely, curious, vaguely anxious, and... ugh, a bit turned on by the prospect if she's being honest.

"Okay," she decides, almost playful.

She shoves the pill in her mouth and swallows it with a gulp of bourbon, keeps up with the impulse before rationalization and overthinking get the time to drown her momentum.

Fuck it, she just turned 73, she's allowed to live a little once in a while.

Rio doesn't look like he expected the boldness of her move. God, he's probably even pissed that she didn't give him the time to start one of his annoying little speeches about Heavens know what absurdity will cross his mind. He's prompt to recover from _that_ shock, though, eventually provides a vague shrug before taking his own pill.

And she thinks it's the end of it — or, well, the beginning, but she's not supposed to _do_ anything else, right? — when out of nowhere he produces a white, round pill that he breaks in two, and she tries not to stare at the way his fingers flex around the drug, how the latter snaps under the pressure that he seems to apply effortlessly.

"Painkiller for your joints," he explains, handing her one half. "Makes the experience better."

"Isn't that dangerous?" she asks.

Because — let's be realistic. Let her forget about her hip for five minutes and she's for sure most likely to break the other one.

"We're responsible grown-ups, yeah?"

His own words.

Nothing special seems to happen after that. They chat and drink for a while, although chatting might be a bit of a strong definition for the vague business-related sentences they evasively form once in a while, and her mind starts drifting away, wondering what _exactly_ happened to Mr. Karpinsky when —

Whoah.

It's — unexpected. As if someone had pushed her from zero to a hundred miles per hour without the in-between acceleration. It's like — turning a switch on.

Except that this particular switch feels like there's a giant candle burning in her belly, the flame setting her every nerve ending on fire and dripping liquid wax between her thighs.

Jesus. She hasn't felt that _wet_ in... a while. And someone could probably fry some eggs on her cheeks right now, given the — the burning that she feels spreading on her front, coating her skin with a thin layer of shameful desire.

"It's hot in here, isn't it?" she mechanically mumbles before she realizes what she just said.

Rio's eyes zero on her face with lustful interest, and she notices that his pupils have blown a little. God, hers are probably full black holes already.

"I—" she starts, nervous, but he cuts her.

"Yeah?"

He stands up quite precipitately, and she mimics him in a hazy daze, pulled into him by some magnetic force. He takes a step forward until they're breathing the same air, and it's just intoxicating, the way he smells, how _close_ he is.

It's not just the boner drug, she realizes. Her want is chemical, sure, but — but also it's him. Brings an extra topping of intoxication, and _need_.

He slips a finger under her chin, angles her face with his painfully slow, lets his lips drag along her temple, and her arm snakes around his waist to bring him closer, because _grinding_ seems to be a great idea right now, and—

He tuts her with a scowl, pushes her back against the wall as he captures her wrists and holds them high above her head, her hands loose and fragile as a bouquet of daffodils in his giant hand.

His mouth dips in her neck and she notices the growing bulge at his crotch, can't help the moan elicited by her absolute frustration. How _dare_ he tease her right now?

"God... I thought that — ah! — skipping foreplay was the whole point of this!" she protests, grumpy.

"Ask for it, then," he drawls against her skin. "Tell me how much you want me."

The demand has her staring at him completely taken aback, flushed in indignation. The asshole. He has no right to bring this up. It's _painful_.

She still remembers every second of that night that had restarted everything, and she knows that he knows it. The way he'd silently stood before her, stared deeply in her eyes while she was only wearing a _towel_.

How he'd pushed a lock of wet hair out of her face, and come closer to whisper in her ear his "I want you so bad I think 'bout you every night in my bed. I wanna fuck you so hard that neither of us can walk for a goddamn week. Gonna let me?"

There's no way in hell she's ever going to say _that_. So instead she rolls her eyes.

"Ha ha. Very funny."

As expected, he pushes his dickishness to the moon and back again. He instantly stops his ministrations, straightening a bit to look at her with something hardened in his expression.

"Kay, then," he mutters.

His tone is _icy_ and she has to swallow hard to not cry. She's burning with want, so needy that she could scream, from the tent on his pants she knows that he's probably in no better state than her, and yet, he has to ruin the moment like that.

Why does it feel like they're on a perpetual restart?

His hands are still keeping her wrists and hip pinned to the wall when he steps back, breaking the contact between their chests, and the loss drags his name out of her mouth in a strangled cry.

"Christopher!"

In merrier circumstances, the look in his eyes would be _comical_.

It's obviously not the name that either of them expected to hear in this moment. God, she's still not even sure that it's not a cover, faker than the money she used to craft. But — But. If Rio has shut her down, maybe Christopher is available. Maybe it's the only rope she can hold on to, the only clue she possesses about _who_ he really is, her only way to tell him that she won't — can't — give him an easy exit.

A vague alarm rises in her mind at that last thought but she shushes it, dives instead in the soft and almost saddened light in his gaze. He clears his throat.

"Elizabeth, I — "

"Don't say it," she pleads.

Whatever he's about to ask from her, she knows she can't give it to him. Can't just draw a line over what happened and pretend that she's fine with it. But she can't let him go either, her skin pulsing and throbbing where his hands are touching her, her chest panting in a vain attempt to meet his body, her lips parted and avidly inhaling the air he breathes.

He gives in with the faintest nod, "Okay."

He frees her hands to grab her thighs and lift her up, and she lets out a strangled noise of surprise, slightly losing her balance and panickily grabbing his neck. There's a minor scare when they both simultaneously realize that his arms aren't as strong as they used to be, and for a wobbly second, destiny seems to hesitate between banging success and epic fall.

Eventually they restore their balance, and she locks her ankles behind his waist to secure the both of them. The kiss feels like a reward, deep, and hot, and _messy_ , and he sort of swallows her plea when she begs him to fuck her, all inhibitions finally absorbed by the nearness of him and the chemicals running in her blood.

He chuckles against her lips with a dickish, "Wasn't so hard, was it?" but she ignores him, hands already fumbling with his belt and pants.

Well. She hasn't seen him this hard since... probably somewhere around the time when they both didn't need pharmaceutical help for _this_.

But then he drags the fabric of her panties aside with his thumb and _pushes_ , and the guttural sound he lets out echoes hers.

"Faster," she demands after a minute.

Because. She _can_ take this. Her body can take it. And she knows that this is unreasonable but she's so tired of being treated like a fragile sandcastle that the tiniest wind blow will destroy, a doll made of sugar whose limbs will break at the merest traction. 

Her body feels lighter, younger, free from its heavy burden of pain and limitations, and as he fucks her hard into the wall, his lips tracing sloppy journeys between her mouth and her neck, he propels them both back to a minuscule and derelict bathroom thirty years ago, to this point where they started something that neither of them has ever been able to stop, despite respective _very_ dedicated efforts.

He pulls out abruptly at some point, and she realizes that his arms are shaking with the task of holding her.

"Bed. On your knees," he growls as soon as he's brought her safely back to the ground.

And that's — it's been so long since the last time he took her from behind that the simple _thought_ of it shoots liquid adrenalin in her belly, makes her breath hitch.

She takes the opportunity to finish undressing before she climbs on the bed, her body turned into a giant pulse of throbbing flesh.

He grabs her hips, slams hard inside of her and she grips the headboard so tight that her knuckles whiten around the hardwood. Somehow the punishing pace of his thrusts liberates her from the accumulated frustration and anger coiled tight in her chest, and as she hears him groan in her back, his fingers pressing bruises between her shoulder blades, she just knows that he feels the same way.

When she comes, it's in a silent scream inaudibly bouncing off the wall. She revels in the absence — the impossibility — of eye contact, relishes the sound of flesh slapping flesh, blesses that he's as lost as her in his own release to not even _be_ with her right now.

She's never felt so young.

She wakes up to a mess of sheets and a confused mind. 

Her memories are a little blurry, but she's positive that she stopped counting the night's orgasms after three. She's pretty sure that she rode him at some point, pictures herself on top of him with visual vividness, his hands plastering her ass, her hips bouncing over him at a concerning pace.

And there definitely was an embarrassingly intimate finale featuring him on top of her, long and deep strokes, and annoyingly languid kisses.

She presses her eyes shut to shake the image away, realizes she needs to pee.

Moving her head, she catches sight of Rio's sleeping shape next to her in the bed, his warmth perceptible on her skin even if they're a foot apart, and she instinctively attempts to get out and up.

"Oww!"

Good Lord.

It feels like every muscle in her body has reached a point of soreness she didn't even think was possible, every bone broken, every joint rusty, and she falls back on the mattress, helpless.

Her groan must have woken him up, because there's a rumble of moving sheets by her side, and one second later he's blinking at the daylight, staring at her with a half-asleep smile.

"Mornin'," he tells her in a soft drawl, something almost tender, and it's irritating, the way she can't bring herself to hate it.

He looks tired, somehow. Worn out from the events of the night, and God, she probably doesn't look in much better shape. Which he seems to quickly realize.

"Summin' wrong?" he inquires.

"I can't. Move," she hisses.

And it's not that she's — panicking. Not yet. But there's this part of her that wonders in a growingly loud fashion how she's supposed to get out of his bed.

He — he doesn't seem to _get_ it. He just lets out a throaty little "Oh," that sounds like the vocal equivalent of a shrug and she squints at him, already annoyed.

He doesn't give her time to glare though. He quickly presses a stolen kiss on her shoulder — she gasps in outraged shock in response — before he scrambles out of bed with a cocky smile that clearly doesn't completely mask his own internal body pain.

He did indulge in some pretty savage hip bucking last night, that she can't deny.

Seconds later he comes back, propelling himself at much quicker speed in his wheelchair, stops by her side of the bed with a little too many theatrics for her liking.

"C'me here."

There's a vertiginous second when she suddenly understands that he actually doesn't mean for her to get on the chair, but to sit _on him_ while he's on the chair.

Which sounds. Fairly impractical.

She considers her options, her eyes glued to the sight of his almost naked body — aside from his briefs and necklace, he's not wearing _anything_ — and she wonders how she could —

A severe tut yanks her back to his already annoyed gaze, and she reluctantly grabs the forearm he's been stretching for her.

He actually manages to pull her on his lap without casualty instead of the catastrophe she'd been picturing in her mind. Things take a terrifying turn when he lets go of her to push on the wheels, and she has to cling to his neck like a lost kitten to make it all the way safe.

And it's — no. She doesn't want to delve into how it makes her _feel_ , trusting him with her life or at the very least her skeleton integrity, nesting her face in the comfort of his shoulder, inhaling the scent and warmth of his skin while he's driving the both of them through the room.

He brings her to the bathroom in one piece, helps her to climb out in a series of protesting groans that she barely controls. It's only when she's about to collapse on the toilet seat that she stares at him, insistent.

There are such things as _boundaries_ in life.

Eventually he picks up the pieces, shoots her a fully sardonic grin and she rolls her eyes at the mocking twist lingering at the corner of his mouth. But he exits the bathroom.

It's only when she gets back up with a grumpy moan that he comes back, faltering on his feet this time, and they both drag each other to the shower like a pathetic couple of crumbling octogenarians.

There's a fond look in his eyes when he spreads soap all over her skin, his eyes telling things that his mouth won't articulate, and — God, she wishes she could live in this moment forever, in the purity of the instant, untarnished with all the baggage they normally carry in their wake wherever they go.

She shifts her balance with a pained groan when he starts rubbing her hip, although the warm water is healing a bit of her soreness.

"Got any regret?" he suddenly asks, droplets of concern dripping down his face.

She takes her time to consider the question. She doesn't know how she feels, but... but maybe it doesn't change the answer.

"No..." she dreamily whispers back. "You?"

He smirks.

"Hundred percent worth it," he drawls with gravel in his voice.

And with that he kisses her, deep and slow, and she clings to his neck, loses herself in the kiss with a little moan as his arms cage her in, pull her into him, and it feels right, and natural, and —

And —

And that's the scary part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to make it very clear that I've had this chapter written for _weeks_ , including the line "know what today is?". Any resemblance with a recently aired episode would thus be purely ~~foreshadowing~~ coincidental.

**Author's Note:**

> Story title from _Young And Beautiful_ by Lana Del Rey


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